Eyes Like Whiskey
by SubmarinesOnCrack
Summary: "Don't leave me like this…" He is certain he'd said something to that effect what now seemed like a lifetime ago- though it might have actually been mere minutes… maybe an hour, yet here he was, lain flat on the inside of the pod barreling skywards through fathoms of sapphire water.
1. Chapter 1: Firework

_-Author's Note-_

_(There won't be many of these.) I haven't written a fanfiction in a LONG time and couldn't even remember my account details for my old, old, OLD account from, like… 2010 maybe? I don't know. Anyway, I've been playing a lot of Bioshock, doing some actual (publishable) writing and have decided to delve back into my heathanistic ways by creating this monstrosity. Of course, it's a premise you've all seen plenty of times in regards to almost every intellectual property in the book, but I'm writing it out of need for catharsis. I won't claim to be an amazing writer because I am very much just average, but I love to do it. That's all that really matters. Anyway, enjoy my madness._

…

"_Don't leave me like this…" _He is certain he'd said something to that effect what now seemed like a lifetime ago- though it might have actually been mere minutes… maybe an hour, yet here he was, lain flat on the inside of the pod barreling skywards through fathoms of sapphire water. Testing twitches tell him that he is very much in control of his faculties, but control isn't his most intense concern. No, it is not by a generous margin. Though he is in control, his body doesn't do much within the obedient persuasion due to the horrible aching and exhaustion each and every extremity bleeds. Oh, how much worse it gets when the pod suddenly breaks the surface and flies up upwards off of the top some ways before slamming back down and settling into a gradually calming bob. He flies up in the freefall to be dropped unceremoniously back to the floor. All he can do in response to the soreness is groan.

In time, he regains himself enough to sense another human being to his left, one who takes him by the shoulder and attempts to get him upright only to get him partially there and then lower him back down. They do not possess the strength to lift him- suit and all- minus aid. He wishes he could force his muscles to exert even the bare minimum, but he fails himself rather spectacularly in that regard. Still, whoever they are, they try again and get him a bit farther up. They fail again, of course, but it is a valiant effort, nonetheless. He could appreciate the attempt. He feels them step around him after this and hears the distinct swish of new, fresh air rushing the pressurized inner sanctum of the pod... Real, fresh air... God, does he wish to feel it… On his face… his hands… his feet… He'd strip naked and embrace whoever is there to watch could he only... A lot stands between he and that fantasy, however…

He is ripped from his thoughts rather abruptly when larger, stronger hands find the small of his back and actually manage to set him upright. They falter partially, but do not drop him. Finally sitting on his rump, he feels the downward rush of blood from his skull. It's like all the fluids in his body were lumped into his head and only now were they able to run back to their homes across his morphed span. His eyes start to clear and a blurry shape sets itself against a backdrop of pinks, blues and greys. It's familiar. What has to be a hand (looking more like a horrific spider in the haze) reaches over his upper body and starts to fiddle with sturdy locks about his chest and shoulder blades, locks that give way so quickly like the hands that took hold of them are intimately familiar with their very making.

He feels the next rush of air. It's cool and salty, but fresh all the same… Manna from heaven. The massive, metal helmet comes off and falls to his side like dead, worthless weight. It finally allows him to focus with all his vision, including the peripheral and thus allows his eyes to really, truly settle themselves. The creature before him is, in fact, familiar. He's burly, broad-shouldered and tall with skin of waterproof weave and a face like a porthole that is framed with brass rivets… The man he'd told to kill him… The man who didn't listen, for whatever reason. He hopes it's a reason hand delivered from God himself or else he'll be more than a little irate.

There is something new to Delta's figure- the way his chest heaves and hands shake... He is weak… or as week as he's ever been, which still affords the goliath of a man some generous measure of strength, but not near as much as he should have. It's concerning, to say the least. A second figure joins Delta to his left, leaning into his vision with a warm, youthful smile. "Augustus," she begins tenderly. "You made it." Eleanor Lamb. Sinclair gasps his understanding since his attempt at speaking only gives him a jolt of agony in his chest. At the reminder that said pain exists, the memories begin to rewind.

Delta had been trying with all his heart to subdue Augustus via non-lethal means. Said means included blunt attacks to deliberate points on the other's body… pressure points. One hit, however, was not on a pressure point and was entirely a measure to get Sinclair off of his feet… an unintentionally authoritative blow to the abdomen. Under his suit, Augustus knows he has a horrid bruise. Delta reaffirms his grip on Sinclair's suited back and then takes ahold of his left bicep. With a concerning effort, the larger man gets him upright… That is, until the smaller's left leg gives out and he nearly takes Delta down with him. The Big Daddy resets his footing and manages to catch Sinclair with but a lean before adjusting his lift to accommodate the other's poor balance.

Augustus keeps the toe of his left foot down for balance but focuses all his weight onto his right and, subsequently, Delta who doesn't at all seem to mind. He takes it in stride, as a matter of fact, and gradually hobbles the two of them from the sanctum to the grated walkway along the outside… to the open air, the glittering breakers… the near-blinding sunlight that painted the clouds in pastels… It is almost too quick. He clamps his eyes shut to prevent from going blind and the light shines right through them. One of Delta's shaking hands moves up to Augustus's shoulder and braces in reassurance, like he's telling him that it's okay to look… it's not going to hurt him. In that, he chances the shock. His eyes creep open and manage to familiarize his brain with the almost new sensation of sunlight. Oh, how he'd forgotten…

Sinclair lowers himself gracelessly onto the grating and Delta lets him, only sliding his grip along the other's arm before releasing entirely once he's sure the man won't fall over the edge. "It's incredible," Eleanor breathes. Sinclair agrees with a grunt and Delta with a nearly imperceptible lowering of his head. In that moment, it seems as though the horrible helm of his attire is getting too heavy for him to bare. It's noticed by the girl, as well. She presses a gentle, yet firm, hand to her "father's" chest, indicating that she wants him to sit. He does so without fuss and shakes the craft just slightly with the force of his slump. "You're very weak, father. I'm surprised that you're alive at all; though I'm glad, I'm not sure how long you'll stay this way. You and Sinclair need doctors… People who can reverse what's been done to you… Both of you." She looks to Augustus who scoots himself from the edge of the walkway when he starts to wobble.

The older man braves a collection of deep breaths before forcing strangled, agonizing words from his mouth. Without his usual control, his accent goes wild. "Who… Out there… would know how'ta... how'ta get these… suits off?"

Eleanor pauses, crouched at Delta's side. "I've read of people who've managed to leave Rapture in the past… Some were scientists and doctors… One or two worked on Big Daddies, at least a little. I don't know how we'd find them or if they'd even have a clue, but… We have a chance and I want to try."

"Well, honey… I want'cha to… to promise me somethin'... If ya can't fix me, then I want… I want'cha to… kill me…. I don't wanna live like… like this... " The words are heavy, even coming with conviction from his own mouth. Saying them feels like slinging stones and the look Eleanor gives in return is adequately painful. She looks like she wants to oppose the request, but nods in agreement anyway. "Thank ya, sugar... " At least the kinder terms of endearment still flow easily. It isn't but a moment of respite before the patter of tiny feet clank their way over to the trio with clamor like a kindergarten class on a field trip. There are at least ten of the tiny girls that skip up to Delta and Eleanore like they've known the two intimately their entire lives. Obviously, they pay Augustus no mind, which works just fine for him. He's never been great with kids.

A few sit on Delta's lap, some hang onto his shoulders and arms and one seems content with being held by her "big sister." Despite his weakened state, Delta humors the children and affords them all the gentleness he can muster with quaking appendages, lifting them up to let them climb on his armor or bouncing them without rhythm on his knee. One could say whatever they please about Big Daddies, but any dig about them being mere brutes without soul was ignorant at best. What he sees when he looks at that Alpha playing with those girls… is anything but.

Oddly enough, when Eleanore puts down the girl she'd been holding to step back inside the pod, she takes one look at the hectic scene about Delta and chooses almost instantly to wander over to Augustus, something he hasn't the time to prepare to object to. At least this child is of the quiet, reserved sort as she just sits against his bent knee and watches the group from a distance. It had to have been the suit, right? They were conditioned to equate the suit to safety… to care. Delta manages to turn the yellow window- that Sinclair had since started to call his "face"- towards the other. What the older man wouldn't give to see the expression held within. Perhaps it is but a watchful eye, making sure that all of the children were accounted for. Just as the girls had been taught to find security in the Big Daddies, the Big Daddies were made to keep a hawk's gaze trained on their charges. No, maybe his terminology should be more tender than that. It wasn't a hawk's eye. It was a parent's. Part of Sinclair wondered if Delta had been this accommodating to young ones in his previous life or if this tolerant disposition was merely the effect of his mental augmentation.

When Augustus watches one of the girls climb atop his head and tap idly on the screen of his visor without any move to scold her, Sinclair confirms the latter. No man alive- no matter how loving- is that patient. Eleanor soon returns with something in hand, stopping to remove the girl from her "father's" head with a mirthful admonish. Upon a little adjustment on his position, Augustus realizes it's a flare gun. Its use in this situation is fairly clear. "Gonna… signal a… passing ship or plane… Right?"

Eleanor nods. "That is the plan. I have three flairs. Someone is bound to come for us eventually."

"Hn... How long… do ya think he… he has… If he's still… ya know…?" The older man is mindful of the children caught in between. The girl's shoulders slump, a horrible show of worry or some emotion similar.

"I don't know. All we can do is hope… and rest. It's not much, but I think we can sleep inside if we get tired enough."

"Honey, after… after sleepin' in Rapture... Anyplace can be… can be a comfy bed... Heh... " He can keep himself upright no longer and flops onto his back, arms splayed as far outwards as possible. God, this is the worst he's ever felt (physically, anyway). The girls laugh before Eleanore ushers them back inside, beckoning Delta as well. He's slow to his feet, but gets up enough to shuffle through the door and pull it partially closed behind him. The eldest girl, however, stays on the walk with the flare gun and her crossed legs just barely hanging over the side. Augustus isn't able to move on his own, but doesn't mind the basking. He's sure Delta will do his best to bring him in when the need arises. "Ya know, it's a… A solid plan save for… for the fact that... " He takes a few deep breaths in a pause as he tries to familiarize his body with the gradually ebbing ache across his midsection. "... For the fact that people know this… this area is notorious for… disappearances… Like… A lot of… them." In response, the girl nods solemnly.

"More than unfortunate... " The tone is a wistful breath, barely audible over the lapping of the water against the pod's metal frame. It's gone in an instant, however. Eleanor's expression and tone morph into those of determination. "...But it's all we can do." Sinclair sighs.

"Let's hope it happens… soon. We don't have… the stuff to feed… everyone." Finally, by some miracle of will, Augustus's left arm lifts at his command and slowly and quiveringly crosses his abdomen to grip his suit over where the pain is most acute. Testingly, he manages to also turn his ankles and bend at least his right knee all the way back so his heel touches his rear. It hurts like hellfire, but he can move some and that is enough for him. As hours wear on, he regains more and more strength in other areas of his body and tries his limits in weird scoots here and there. By the time he can actually sit up enough to hang onto a handrail, the sun has dipped far below the distant waterline and a moonless night bathes the world in a somber glow that feels sickeningly similar to a time when glass domes created shafts of artificial light above their heads.

"Maybe nightfall will make spotting ships easier," Eleanor had suggested not long before the darkness entirely consumed them and it was partially true. A ships lights in this type of darkness were far easier to spot as well as the light of their flare, but night time also brought another pot of horrors, more so on the ocean than anyone could ever imagine; not to mention the fact that the children probably wouldn't sleep in the dark and on a cold, metal floor. Delta could only comfort them so much within the confines of his unforgiving, industrial prison. Speaking of Delta, the Alpha steps out of the chamber with a slightly steadier set to his movements, though his subtle limp is a clear sign of continued weakness. In silence, Sinclair hopes the other isn't still actually dying, but it's a baseless, fruitless wish spawned from a desperate desire for positivity in the current circumstance. He knows the facts, how Delta was designed. The Alpha's time is limited and chances of him even making it to shore are slim.

"Are the girl's alright, Father?" Delta answers by pointing to Eleanor and then to the open chamber. "Are they asking for me?" He nods. The girl stands, legs needing a moment to regain blood flow prior to her handing off the flare gun to her "father" and stepping inside; in this, Delta takes to his new- albeit temporary- position with boundless diligence. He sits upon the edge of the platform and scans the horizon on a swivel.

"Hmm... How ya…. How ya feelin', chief?" Augustus's strength has nearly doubled since they reached the surface and he finds speaking to be a far easier task. Either he's grown used to the pain enough to tolerate it or it's actually going away to an extent. Delta gives but a single, heavy nod. "Mm. Don't go dyin' on us now, ya hear? You're with me until we get out of here and we ain't really out of Rapture until it's **far** behind us." The glowing porthole of the Big Daddy's helmet considers him in a tensionless quiet before returning to the water. "Can't you… Take that off?" He reaches a quaking finger out to poke the side of the metal dome and the action occurs far more slowly than he would've liked. He was sure Delta got the point long before his hand made contact, yet he humored the smaller man. Once gain, Delta gives but a nod. "Why don'cha?" This time, it is a shrug, but a subtle one. He could've blinked and missed it.

"Well, come on, kid. I ain't gonna make fun… I promise." Sinclair tries his absolute best to sound completely genuine without a hint of ill-meaning subtext. Still, Delta hesitates, right thumb tracing the butt of the gun in his hand almost nervously. Augustus scoots his way over to him with a gentle nudge to his shoulder. The action earns him a look, at least. "Gotta admit that I'm curious, chief. Just a peek? You can put it back on right after." When the silence stretches onward, he continues. "It would make me feel a little better." Damn him to hell for being a little manipulative, but a part of him fancies the idea of leaving all remnants of Rapture far in the past wherever possible- Delta's archaic helmet being one of those stepping stones. He doesn't think he himself would feel sentimental about what amounts to a collar in his eyes, but he isn't Delta... He's not even close.

Despite the previous hesitation, however, a single hand slips from the flare gun to one of the locks on the dome, a motion that shoots a spike of near excitement through Sinclair. He remembers vaguely what that "Johnny Topside" had looked like, but Subject Delta wasn't much of that man anymore… And surely the hell he'd been through changed him, right?

_...The hell __**Augustus**_ _put him through…_

Just as tentative fingers reach the metal lock, a hand grabs the Big Daddy's wrist, pulling it gently away with an ashamed downturn to Sinclair's face. The visor looks him over. "On… On second thought, I... Nevermind, kid." Delta's head tilts to the right, hand caught mid-air between Sinclair and his own dome. Of course it takes confusing him to arouse anything akin to an expression. "I'm sorry." He slips his hand from Delta's. It hits his lap dully as he dead-weights it. Even when the smaller man looks away, Delta continues to stare with a lopsided set to his head, something Augustus does his best to ignore. "_Don't look back. Don't look back... _"

Metal feet clanking against the walk give Sinclair a much appreciated reprieve from what had to have been her "father's" scrutinizing glare. Eleanor softly slips the gun from Delta's hand and nudges him towards the door. "Go rest, father. Preserve your strength." She doesn't need to hassle him. Delta heads back to the children with less fuss than a well-trained hound. She reclaims her spot on the walk and Sinclair distances himself from where the larger man had been sitting moments ago- not without a curious glance from Eleanor first, of course.

That glance is long gone by the time the girl gets to her feet and says something that barely reaches the comprehension of the man. He looks at her and furrows his brows in a silent question which then prompts her to repeat herself. "I see lights!" Augustus manages to roll onto his side. Sure enough, in the distance among the glittering reflections of stars there were lights in stark contrast to the rest, tinted more like fire than of the gaseous bodies above. Swiftly, Eleanor aims the gun upwards and fires. A streak of smoke winds its way up high above their heads, following an orb of red that fans out into multiple orbs as it makes its way back down. It's so bright that the stars vanish for bit a second. When the scarlet tinge fades from the world around them, the lights refocus on the horizon. They watch them, two sets of eyes incredibly intent. The vessel, whatever it is, shows no signs of seeing them.

Quickly, almost fumbling, Eleanor loads a second flare into the gun and fires again. It behaves the same as before… and it fades… and the lights remain on their steady course. Slowly, Eleanor sits down on the platform, her feet dipping into the water. She holds the last flare in one hand, rubbing it between her fingers. In haste, she's wasted two flares... She's thinking… her face is scrunched and posture riged. "What do you think?" she finally asks, looking to Sinclair.

Augustus sighs. "Let's just wait. It might be a bigger ship. Maybe it takes them longer to turn."

"Right. Right." She sets the flare gun aside and crosses both of her fingers, setting the heels of her hands against her stomach. Even in the darkness, the man can see her mouthing what has to be a desperate plea.

"'Sides… they'd see the lighthouse." Sinclair tilts his head towards the stone monolith, something Eleanor doesn't directly acknowledge. She merely nods, biting her lower lip. Augustus lets out a long, aching huff. "Why didn't he kill me?" She doesn't have to ask. He knows she knows who he's referring to.

"I don't know. We aren't connected anymore, but we'll fix this. Even if we can't save… him… We can get that suit off **you**." He sure hopes so. Perhaps the girl's sheer conviction will bring the solution into existence. If only it were as simple as believing hard enough. Perhaps then Rapture wouldn't have been a pipe dream spat into the middle of the Atlantic.

"I sure hope so, sweetheart… I really do... I might have a second chance and there's a lot I need to make up for... "

"Don't worry about what you did down there," Eleanor says this so assuredly, like she believes any guilt on his conscience was preposterous. What does she know? She might be mature for her age, but Eleanor is still but a child, still unaware of how utterly terrible he'd been, not only to Delta, but to hundreds of needy and vulnerable people. "We are going to put Rapture behind us. All of us."

"Easier said than done."

"I don't care what it takes. All of this is going to be but a chapter in our lives."

"Hm. Sweetie, Rapture has been just about my entire book. Livin' well for the few years I got left won't redeem my character."

"Not with that attitude." Sinclair goes to retort before a bulky, gloved hand gently taps his cheek, drawing him rather abruptly from his focus with a start. Delta had come out onto the walk without either of them hearing somehow, despite his weight and lumbering gait. Seeing that glowing, intense visor staring down at him has always made him feel far smaller than he really was. Augustus imagines that, behind that screen, there's a disapproving glare… a face that calls him a fool. "Father, you should be resting." The Alpha stretches his arm to extend a figure towards the lights on the horizon. "We signaled them, yes. Only time will tell if they respond." The hand drops and Delta remains almost as still as stone upon the platform.

"Kid, you really do need to rest. Usin' unnecessary energy could be disastrous," the smaller man chimes, shoving at the Big Daddy's knee. In rebuttal, the larger man hooks an arm around Augustus's waist and hoists him to his feet (or _foot _rather as the left was still almost inoperable.) This startles the other enough to draw a sharp, stinging gasp from his chapped lips and cause one hand to grasp Delta's shoulder hurriedly. "Woah, big hoss!"

In pure amused delight, Eleanor barks a laugh. "I think he wants you to rest, too."

"Not like I can say no!" Delta lifts him into the chamber and seals the door shut behind them. Inside, the children are in various states of occupation, some trying to sleep on patches of floor covered by scratchy, spare blankets from the storage crate and others are going about in their own games of either chase or pretend. All of that stops when Delta presents himself. Those that were awake stop their own activities and run to hulking man, but they are far more gentle after Eleanor's warnings some time previously. They don't cling to him or grab him. Instead, they press gentle hands to his legs and look up expectantly, waiting for free hands to interact in some way. Delta lowers Sinclair to the floor with the same soft hands that he then uses to pick up a couple of the children. He walks said children to about the middle of the pod and sits. It is with some doing that the Alpha gets the remaining children to settle upon the cots and only a short time longer to get them to sleep. What surprises Sinclair most, though, is how Delta manages to do it. Big Daddies were altered severely - even the earlier ones - to an extent that prevented most forms of communication. This included talking. That said, some small noises were possible with enough effort, even if forming real words wasn't.

Through what has to be agonizing effort on an already injured Delta, the suited behemoth gathers his strength… and hums. It isn't harmonious by any means. There are stops for heavy breaths and he is fairly out of tune, but it's there… it's recognizable… _Silent Night. _Though it is by no means pleasant, Augustus smiles. He listens with a head leaned gently against the back of the pod and the collar of his suit. '_Mm... Maybe he would sound decent with working vocal cords... _' the smaller man muses in his head. The children like it, however. They like everything their lumbering protector does. It is in that where Sinclair reasons that Big Daddies were these girls' means of behavioral learning. _What Daddy does has to be good. _Be it murdering and smashing or humming lullabies, what Daddy does has to be good. Rapture really was-

Before he can finish the thought, he's pulled from himself to a small grip on his limp left arm. It's far too small to be either Delta's or Eleanor's. Glancing over, he finds the hand of the very same girl that had approached him earlier. Her face is blank and her movements are very cautious, but she settles herself into Augustus's side with his forearm as her pillow. He looks to Delta for help, but the quick, careless glance he tosses back speaks volumes. '_You're on your own._' The older man grumbles. He turns to the little girl who rests against him with her eyes open, half-lidded and watching the others sleep. "What's your name, darlin'?" he asks as gently as he is able. She slowly moves her head to face him. Her eyes are wide, lively orbs of emerald green.

"Odette."

"Yeah? That's real pretty. I'm Augustus." Odette sits herself up some so she can better look at the older man.

"August. "

"No, it's…" He stops for a moment. "...Well… Yeah, sure. August." Damn him if he isn't terrible around children. At least his resignation gives the previously blank child a weak smile. Still, in comparison to the others, Odette is an oddity. She seems almost sickly. The concept didn't surprise Sinclair as he, too, felt out of sorts in light of recent events. Perhaps a soft bed and stable housing will do them all some good. Right now, however, Augustus can sleep anywhere. In fact, he finds himself drifting off against the metal sheeting of the pod in spite of the pain, the worry and the twisting of his gut. In this moment, the sea is calm, the air is quiet… It's as close to bliss as he's been in a long time.


	2. Chapter 2: Deep Breaths

He wonders how it sounds when a shark breathes. When a great white takes water into its gills, what noise does it make? He sees them idling past portholes and grand, bay windows and observes the movements their streamlined bodies make. He notes how their mouths gape as though gasping and slits in their neck flex in tandem. Through the glass, however, he cannot hear the sound it makes. He also doesn't wish to enter the water with a shark just for curiosity's sake. He just wonders. Can the Rosies hear it when they find themselves fixing leaks outside of the city walls? Is it deep and bassy? He imagines so, fancies the idea… but he doesn't know. Would he ever know? He decides not and takes to his imagination. He sees a bulky, grand Great White in there. He sees it opening its mouth in its gasping motion and taking in the sea. The sound is deep. It rumbles like a growl but with a background of intake. Yes, that sound is fitting for a shark.

It occurs over and over- a rumbling intake and a vibrating release. The time between is a tense pull… At least it _feels_ like a pull. That's how his mind describes it. He imagines a rubber band being stretched and then returned to its normal shape. That's how it feels. It suddenly comes to him that the sound is real… far _too _real. It's tangible and coming from somewhere he cannot see. Blurry, vague constructs of a world he wants in distant memory begin to fade like sand castles in the tide. The piles they form at his feet slide down into the abyss like the floor is made of netting. With that, he is left in the darkness… the void. Not for long, but long enough. He's sleeping… or _was_. He finds himself in waking and soon opening his eyes.

The shapes around him now are far more real and focused when he opens his eyes. He's in the pod, of course, and finds about him the sleeping forms of small children. Odette is still clung to him. Her head is resting on his left arm just as it had been prior to him falling asleep. More prominent, however, is the continued sound of that deep, raspy rumble… the shark's breaths. Augustus's eyes wander and they do not need to travel far before finding Delta's body. His on his side to accommodate for the tank on his back, but the heavy rise in his body with each growl is seen as though amplified for observation. Had it been that way before?

As Sinclair moves to adjust himself, Odette moves as well. She sleeps light, it seems, as she moves off of the man and scoots herself upright. She then moves over and lays her head just barely onto one of the blankets on which the others sleep. She's far too quiet for a child, he can't help but think. However, that is the least of his concerns. Again, Augustus tries to adjust himself, sit himself upright in preparation to move. Again, he is stopped. His left leg burns with all hell's fury and trying to bend it proves how terribly swollen it has become. It's broken. There's no doubt in his mind. Still, it's the least of his concerns.

Augustus turns himself around and scoots towards the Alpha by digging his right heel into the floor. It's slow going, of course, both in part due to his bad leg and the children scattered about, but he manages to make his way to the larger man and places a firm hand upon his shoulder. It's more than firm, actually. He makes a point of digging in with his finger-tips to ensure his touch is felt. Delta's helm turns to aim its porthole at the other, indicating that he is, in fact, awake which expels all hope that the heavy breathing was just born from sleep. "Heh… Hey, kid. Sleep alright?" He sets himself back against his rear in an attempt to seem less concerned. He gets a single nod in return. "Good. Good… I did, too… In… In case you were wonderin'." Another nod. Beyond that, Sinclair is at a loss. He smiles nervously and wrings his knuckles in the silence while trying not to look at the other man. He realizes, though, that this might appear more awkward than what he'd previously been concerned with and turns to Delta with a wide smile. This earns him a clap on the shoulder, heavy and seemingly tired.

"How ya' feelin', big hoss?" The same hand that rests on Augustus's shoulder slowly balls into a fist before extending the thumb lazily. "Promise?" He flicks the thumb up and down. Augustus laughs and pats the hand. "Good. You keep bein' tough, you hear me? We need ya', kid." He averts his eyes after a quick smile, looking out the fogged windows to the peachy sky beyond. He makes out Eleanor's figure just outside the door. She's sitting against the railing with a slight hunch. "She stayed up all night," he breathes. Painfully - and perhaps unintentionally - Delta pushes down against Sinclair's shoulder to steady himself on his own two feet. When he walks towards the door, his gait is sluggish. His hands hang loosely with simple sways. Watching Delta struggle and attempt to hide his weakness digs the pit in Augustus's stomach deeper and deeper. Each step buckles his knees, each pull on the door causes his fingers to slip... When he finally gets the hatch open, Augustus notes the audible hiss from the larger man. An action that would've taken an able-bodied man under a minute takes Delta nearly three. Over one-hundred and twenty long seconds...

In spite of his own fragility, Sinclair hoists himself onto one leg - noting the new strength - and manages to hop his way partially across the pod floor before Delta forces a surge of energy to meet him the rest of the way with steadying hands. The burst of urgency from the other causes Augustus to cringe. "Hey, now. None of that, kid. I can manage. You need to conserve your strength." In spite of the scolding, the larger man wraps an arm about the other's waist and leads him to the now-open pod door. From beyond, just waking shafts of sunlight barely reach above the crystal horizon. They bound softly over breakers, only minutely beginning to show hints of orange and dusty-pink. As the two clamber out onto the grating, Eleanor's figure shifts and she tiredly turns to meet them with a painfully forced smile. "Mornin', doll," Augustus greets as it seems the girl is too tired to even form words. In response, she broadens her smile and slouches more against the railing. "Why don't you go and get some winks, honey. Delta and I can keep an eye out for a little while." There aren't any complaints from the girl. She limply hands Sinclair the flare gun and wobbles her way into the pod.

For the time being, inches of steel seal Delta and Sinclair into all the privacy the open ocean allows. The older man is set down where Eleanor had once sat and Delta takes to a spot close to Sinclair's left. In spite of his partner's inability to speak, Sinclair feels a horrible tension - dread - like he expects the other to prod him. Similarly, Augustus has a litany of his own questions. They only build that feeling seeing as the other is unable to answer, at least in a satisfying manner. The older man thumbs the butt of the gun, being sure to keep his fingers far enough away from the trigger to prevent accidents. He should say something, though… right? In his own experience, silence bred only negativity. Death, contempt, second thoughts - all silent.

"Boy, I can't wait 'till we get off this tub. You and I get out of these suits and there's a whole world I get to show ya'." Sinclair wipes his open palm across the sky. "We're goin' on a trip, you and I. Eleanor, too. New York, Boston, Charleston - Anywhere you wanna go, I'm gonna make it happen. Cross my heart." The same hand comes to rest gently against his collar as Sinclair looks to Delta with a broad, pearly smile. In Rapture's hayday, this smile had gotten him quite a few luxuries, be it a lucrative opportunity or an immensely enjoyable night with whomever tickled his fancy. He isn't sure what his goal is with Delta. Still, the Big Daddy grunts, visor locked attentively onto Augustus.

"You ever try fresh peach cobbler?" Delta shakes his head as best he can, a movement requiring his shoulders to follow through to be visible. "I knew a place in Boston that made **the best** \- topped it with Vanilla ice-cream and caramel. Heh, I could go on, but thinkin' about food's gonna get us both a lot more torture." He laughs. Delta grunts. It's a lighter sound, this grunt. It's like a single snort in response to a bad joke. Sinclair decides that this is Delta's way of laughing, or faking such for Augustus's sake. Either way, he likes it. "Well, jolly trips and peach cobbler can wait, anyway. First thing we gotta do is find where those little girls belong. Most of 'em were taken from the surface. They gotta still have family somewhere out here. Mamas and Daddies cryin', wonderin' where their little girls went to... " The visor casts its gaze across the scape of rippling water. It's almost wistful - serene. One could catch it on a postcard with the Big-Daddy swapped with a pretty pin-up doll. Sinclair thinks about it. Sure, a lovely little blond number in a two-piece sounded like something to behold, but Delta was nice in an artistic sense. Maybe it's even an image Sander Cohen would swoon over with his queer sense of style.

"_It's magnificently-industrial!"_ He imagines the eccentric "matremind" crying with a flourish of hand motions. He's heard similar musings in passing from time to time, seeing as Sinclair himself had dallied with Ryan's crowd on occasion, though never thought his relationship with Cohen - or Ryan, for that matter - was of more consequence than mere business necessity. In fact, he believes most of that group despised him vehemently. They never said so or made it overtly obvious, but Ryan was never good at hiding his stronger emotions.

His mind drifts some at the recollection of Adrew Ryan - specifically to an image of the "Great Man" sat across a desk and glaring pointedly back at him...

_The room was posh and clean, a far cry from a lot of Rapture in those days, something Sinclair expected. Even if the rest of the city was crumbling to bits, Ryan kept the initial vision alive and well everywhere he frequented. Behind Ryan was a bay window that overlooked glimmering lights and schools of deep-sea fish. Simply remembering it gives Augustus a rush of anxiety. "I know it may seem an unusual request," began Ryan, drawing out the word "request" as though meaning to completely silently substitute the word with something far more firm. "...However, the need for such a place has become far too clear. It is the only way to ensure our continued operation." _

"_I hear you loud and clear, sir, and I wholeheartedly agree," Augustus had returned with another trademark grin and leisurely lilt, rolling a lit cigar in his right hand. _

"_So you'll do it?" _

"_Why, of course, Mister Ryan - that is if my conditions are met. I still have to make a living. I'm sure you, of all people, understand. This project will certainly prove costly." Andrew Ryan gave Augustus one of his particular stares - the same he gave Fontaine. It was a mixture of respect and disdain as though going through these motions had become a chore. _

"_Yes, yes. Of course. I'll spare no expense." _

Sinclair blinks and finds the horrible mahogany floors entirely gone. There is no Andrew Ryan sitting in front of him, there is no cigar between his index and thumb and there most certainly is no massive pane of glass alloy glaring down at him, reminding him of his confinement. Rapture is gone, at least to him. If only everything else could disappear so easily. He puts his right hand out before him and surveys the spanse of fused cloth, metal and flesh. Upon a placard about his knuckles there is carved a partial-circle symbol that flared at the open ends. _Omega - _Lamb had declared it so confidently in the short time after his awakening. "_Our champion. Fitting for you to end the mess you helped create. You serve a greater purpose, now." _The hand slumps down back onto the railing to hang loosely by the wrist. She was right about one thing, as much as it hurts him to admit it - even silently.

What would have become of him had he not bent to Ryan's summons? Augustus risks falling back into his imagination. He sees a retirement in Panama near where he was raised, lain back in the sweltering heat. He has plenty of whiskey, cigarettes and funds to keep himself comfy in an empty house by the beach. Maybe he takes up writing. He's always wanted to try at least putting out one book, but whether or not it would be a novel or one of those ridiculous self-help business start-up scams he was unsure. Could he get away with writing about Rapture? Now that is an idea. Sinclair opens his eyes and looks up at the pretentious "art-piece" that was Ryan's lighthouse, his beacon to a new world. Even in the near blinding sunlight, the muscular, winged figure holding an orb is clearly visible.

Maybe he **should** write about Rapture… Write about the failures, the hypocrisy… All the warts. Rapture was a pretty face covered in warts - almost like a Splicer, in a sense. Oh, isn't that poetic, he thinks. The very "parasites" of Rapture - one of Ryan's greatest banes - represents her so brilliantly. How he'd love to expose every little destructive misstep she ever took on her path to hell.

A heavy metallic clank drags Sinclair from his thoughts. Delta's hand repeats the rhythmic rattle on the railing before the older man and then points across the waves to a shape on the boundary. Augustus clears the daydream from his eyes in time to see the great silhouette of a vessel and feel Delta slip the flare gun from his loose grasp. As quickly as he can, the Big Daddy raises the barrel high and fires. In the light, the glimmer is minimal - barely a spec… Taking deep breaths is all the older man can do to halt the dread from boiling over in his stomach. The last vessel ignored them, even with a glaringly-obvious signal.

Then the horn... It's a low, knowing bellow clear over whipping wind and growing breakers. It's a siren's song. It's a medicine for his ill nerves. It's hope. "They see us. That has to be it, kid. They see us!" If not for his broken leg, Sinclair would've jumped up in jubilation. Delta clasps his shoulder with a grunt and reassuring squeeze. The older man gently runs both hands over his face. "Oooohh… We just gotta get to the mainland and we can figure the rest out." His voice is laden with a long, breathy drawl - a cousin to a sigh. As expected, Eleanor is out and about in a flash. She must have heard the horn.

"Was it that ship? Has it seen us?" She leans over the railing and points.

"Looks like it. Shouldn't take 'em longer than a half-hour to get longboats our way." He leans over with a grin. "Excited?"

"I feel like I'm going to throw up."

"Ha! You and me both, honey."

...

Never once prior had Augustus been a spectacle. Of course, he's always been handsome in the face, if he has anything to say about it, but aside from that he'd never been above a smile or passing glance. Now, however, he finds himself the intrigue of many a sailor alongside poor Delta. People in rapture always stared at big daddies, but they also knew to keep their distance. These men aren't privy to his "nature," and thus have no reservations about approaching and gawking like school children at a show-pony. When asked, Eleanor spouted some drivel about deep-sea diving and being aboard a trans-atlantic liner when the vessel had complications- very clearly practiced. In the event, they took the children onto their "experimental deep-sea craft" and waited for rescue.

"We've been stranded for days," she'd told the captain upon their boarding. "We haven't seen any life-boats, any survivors. We were on our way to New York. A lot of the children claim to have family there." They were swiftly given living arrangements below deck where Eleanor had taken the girls to get them settled and now Augustus and Delta are standing on deck, keeping the curious busy while she gets everything straightened out with the girls. "_Going over the cover story, do doubt," _the older man thinks. He certainly isn't bored between each prodding bombardment. At this particular moment, a young irish deckhand is staring wide-eyed at the suits themselves, giving specific attention to Delta's helm.

"An' ye can breathe through that? All the way down there? At the bottom?"

"Yessiree. Wonder a' science, ain't it? All we gotta do is take a diving bell down, adjust to the pressure and we're good to walk right atop the ocean floor."

"Oi? Wot's down there?"

"Ohhh, just a lotta sand… Rocks…. I've seen a sunken ship or two. Hell, even a plane."

"E'en under that big ol' lighthouse? Why's that there?"

"Ehh, heard it was a memorial for a shipwreck. Built by some fellas over in Europe. Haven't dived there specifically. We were just crossing through." Augustus leans over the rail and looks sideways at the boy with his best poker-face.

"Thas…. Not wot I heard."

"Yeah? What'd you hear, son?"

"I heard... Well, I heard they was buildin' somethin' down there. Lots'a talk from fishermen who say they been turned around by men wit' guns. Others 'bout missin' ships that cross through here an' never get seen again. Now you say you was on a boat passin' through an it went an' got itself lost... I think I's believin' it."

"Heh," Sinclair scoffs and turns with a lazy smile. He raises his brow at the young man as though he'd said something completely laughable. Perhaps, to those out of the loop, it was… To normal people it was. "Now, it takes a fisherman to believe a fisherman's tale, doesn't it? Don't be so willin' to latch onto those tall tales. Each of 'em are just lookin' for somethin' new to spit about over drinks at a ratty bar on the boardwalk. _I heard this, I saw that. _It's just bored old men, chief. Ships go missin' all over the ocean and it's all because of one thing: nature is - and always will be - more powerful than anythin' man can build. I've spent more time under these waters than any man on this ship and I respect them. I know what they can do. I've seen the aftermath. I've seen glorious ships twisted like rope and thrown into the dirt miles below the surface; I've seen the bodies of their crew trapped behind portholes, staring out with frozen eyes at the black abyss… And that's scarier than anything some salty, drunken fool can dream up." It's fronting entirely. He read it in a book once- some fictional mess about an old shipbuilder thinking about what it's like to die trapped within the vessels he builds. There's enough conviction in it, though, that the boy backs off some, wide-eyes going wider with a new wonder.

"Why do ya do it... " It comes a good while into the stunned silence.

"Someone has to. Someone has to go down and get a look, see if there's anythin' worth salvagin' when those things go down… see if anyone can be identified."

"Ye see a lot of… bodies?" His tone is almost sick, now. Shaking. His face is blanched.

"Absolutely. The ocean does abhorrent things to a corpse, believe you me." Before the poor boy can wretch at the thought a man calls him from the wheelhouse. He vanishes behind walls of steel and Sinclair steals a breath. "Ooh…. God help the young ones." He leans his head back over the edge of the bow. "Speakin' of which, I think we should go check on… "our" brood." That word almost chokes him to speak. Absolutely should no child ever be considered his. No living thing aside from a house plant or a very independent animal, either. He cared for horses back in Panima until he was old enough to strike out and he certainly didn't enjoy the experience. Neither did he being the eldest of six.

All that aside, Delta puts arm around Sinclair's waist, trying to balance the older man and keep his own tired form upright. Together, their footfall creates a lopsided cocoughany of unrhythmic clatter. His own is unconcerning, a simple broken bone at the worst, but Delta...

…

Below deck, many of the sailors have given up their beds for the girls. They moved themselves into the lounge for the rest of the voyage, but do come in to see the children. They speak to them in calm, hushed tones… the voices of fathers… of older brothers… of grandfathers... The girls run about the mess hall, a room much larger than the pod and more suitable for tag and pretend. It's touching, almost. Eleanor is certainly at ease, especially with more capable hands to help her handle the young ones, though her eyes are still trained on each sailor like a hawk. Said eyes relax considerably when Augustus and Delta make themselves known.

"Father... " She walks, almost skips, to the Alpha and takes him by the forearms. "Father, you need to rest. Please. They have a room for you. You and Sinclair."

"Well, that's mighty fine of them considering that I'd be perfectly comfortable sleepin' on the floor rather than in a bed I stole from someone."

"We've been through a lot… Just one night in a safe, comfortable bed… The both of you. Please. It would make me feel better to have both of you rested… And the strongest you can be." Sinclair hobbles between the two of them. He gives the girl a warm smile and squeezes Delta's left forearm.

"Don't you worry, sugar. I'll make sure your daddy gets plenty of shut-eye. A few hours at the very least and not a second less than two." She nods. It's nervous, relieved and sick all at once. She's running on fumes. Sputtering. Struggling. "And I think you should try to get some, too. All of you should as soon as possible." He sighs. "And stop worrying so much, honey. Take a breath. You're not underwater anymore." He whispers the last part and she laughs a dry, breathy laugh.

"Right. It's over here."

The room is cozier than Sinclair imagined. The floor was lined with a navy carpet, the beds are soft and white, there is a desk in the corner made of a light, lively wood and there was a matching wooden molding. He feels an urge to march back to the deck and reaffirm that he's on a cargo freighter. Delta sets Sinclair on the floor against one of the beds and tosses himself just across, but an arm's reach for the lumbering tin-man. Augustus notes the sag in his features... It's worse. It's only been a day. Is it even a good idea to let him sleep?

"_If we let him, he might not wake up. If we don't, he could shut down from exhaustion." _The older man decides that Delta deserves the more comfortable option and resigns himself to watching the big-daddy slowly droop and droop until a familiar, deep intake resonates from the helmet. Delta's barrel chest swells and shivers with each and every one and, as long as that almost painful sound fills the cabin, Sinclair feels he can rest- Maybe not sleep, but...

_It's not a great white - not this time. It's bigger, but gentler. Through the transparent alloy, he eyes gloss over smooth, blue, speckled skin. Little white spots pattern its slow, graceful form. It's mouth is wide, too... Wide and gasping. It's gills flare with each breath and he can hear it loud and clear. He feels not an imposing nature from the small eyes of this beast, if it is even a beast at all. Surely, that look is curiosity. It sits in place of the great white's coldness or the tiger shark's aggression. It watches him, too. It's reflected on the polished, mahogany floors and even the marble figures of chiseled men to Sinclair's back. _

_It cannot- nor does it - sit still. Instead, it paces. It swims the length of the window and then sweeps in a dance of a turn to cross back over it. It almost seems as enthralled by the man behind the glass as said man is with it. It isn't hunger, he knows. This species hasn't the faculties to devour larger flesh, even if its mouth is wide enough to swallow a man whole. Sinclair places a cigar between his teeth and sucks in a lung-full of fumes before obstructing his view of the creature for only a moment. It seems mesmerized by the cloud and even chases it as it wafts up into the vent and then the beast swims back down to resume its "patrol." _

"_Those are my favorite." Augustus turns back and smiles at the brunet lain across the sunchair, cigarette in her own, plump lips. _

"_Are they, now?" _

_She nods. "I always thought their skin looked like the night sky in that Van-Gogh painting." He can sort-of see it. _

"_I suppose so." _

"_Not a fan of Van-Gogh, Augustus?" Her tone is teasing and he tries not to let the smidge of offense bleed through. _

"_Not a fan of artists, honey. Everythin's gotta have some cosmic meaning with them. You just sit and listen to Cohen for one dinner and you'd see. Last time I humored that fruit cake, he sat and fawned over the sounds whales made and how he wanted to capture their "sorrowful love-songs" for a play. God help us all if we have to sit through whale calls for entertainment." She laughs. It is dry and void of real humor, almost... pitying. _

"_Dear, you are in no position to call anyone a fruit cake." _

"_And what __**ever **__do you mean?" _

"_Oh, don't be coy, love. You can't possibly believe that you're entirely unobtrusive. There's a point where a rumor persist so loyally someone would be a fool not to suspect its merit." _

"_So you believe all long-standin' rumors like Fontaine being a communist spy or, God forbid, Ryan having upwards of twenty illigitimate children?" _

_She sits up and smears her cigarette into the brass ashtray. "Not at all. Not what I meant. All I'm suggesting is that, when whispers become so consistent in substance, one has to recognize the possibility that they might be true. In this case, I believe they are." _

"_Darlin'," He finally turns fully from the creature beyond the pane. "You of all people should know how ridiculous that particular rumor is. You and many of your friends, as a matter of fact." A dismissive wave of his hand and he's back to observing the shark's waltz. _

"_You're the one being silly here. You know how it works. You know how __**you **__work." _

_He doesn't dignify it with a response. Only fools believe rumor for gospel and he wasn't keen on calling her a fool, at least not to her face. Rather, he just listens. He listens to his own body as it sucks in another cloud of smoke and spits it back out. _

_Deep breaths._


	3. Chapter 3: The Plan

_The way Andrew Ryan glares across the table at him would put the devil to shame. His lips seem to be permanently set in a thin, partially slanted line with his brows so furrowed that one wouldn't be a fool for thinking he hadn't any eyes under there. The wine in his hand is almost untouched, a stark opposition to Sinclair's which he continues to sip in entirely relaxed silence - his own lips are upturned just slightly. From beyond a lavish red curtain there travels the muffled clinks of silverware and china against a backdrop of pleasant conversation. Yes, the entire joint is positively bubbly save for the rotten corner of the hall where Ryan and Sinclair sit face-to-face. _

"_It's only a suggestion," Augustus finally adds with a sly smile upon finishing his admittedly-lackluster beverage. It's an awfully-weak and flowery brew. "Laws can be nasty business but sometimes they're necessary and not without workarounds for the smarter gents. Take it from an ol' barrister, freedom requires at least a little restraint. Don't we all deserve a right to life, liberty and everythin' in-between? Make_ _**murder **__punishable, at the very least." _

_Ryan clears his throat. "Rapture is young and, like a child, she looks to push her limits. I keep her course steady but I refuse to slap her hands and take away her freedom like a tactless nursemaid. She must learn from her mistakes and adjust without someone strapping a leash to her and forcing her along." _

"_Younguns need a guiding voice, though. That's all I'm sayin', Andrew. If a child stabs another with a pencil, don't we at least give 'em a talkin' to?" _

"_And not consider what the other child did to provoke it?" _

"_Sometimes there isn't any provocation." _

"_Then that child is subject to whatever comes of his actions - the consequences brought on at the hands of the other. Children are coddled too much, Sinclair. There are lessons we delay the teaching of for the sake of control. I will not be that nursemaid to Rapture. I am her creator and I insist on letting her learn these lessons in her own time. If one shall choose to strike his fellow man, then he will learn from this mistake when he, too, is struck."_

_Ryan's expression retains the annoyance, but his new set is far less scrunched and more stern. To the uninitiated, that would signify the start of a more civil discussion but Augustus knew better. That expression meant the end to __**all**_ _discussion. He lovingly refers to it as the "shut-up or else"-look. His hands are tied. The older man sighs and gives in with a very carefully-chosen response, mulling for but a moment over the verbiage. "Your intuition's gotten Rapture this far. If you believe this is how you'd best handle her…" _

"_It is." Ryan leans forward on folded hands. "Sinclair, I respect the name you've made for yourself in this city and I will honor any and all agreements we come to but, make no mistake, I take no pleasure in listening to your inane suggestions." _

"_Oh, but you have to listen, don't you? What kind of freedom would we have if I couldn't put in my own two cents every now and again? I mean nothin' by it, Mister Ryan. It's just the occasional thought that crosses my mind. Can't help it when those ideas stick in their little hooks." _

"_You're also free to keep them to yourself." _

"_Your own suggestion to the pot, I take it?"_

"_A very stern request." _

"_Noted."_

_Augustus smiles, his nonchalant demeanor never once wavering on the outside. He taps the rim of his glass and watches Ryan's stone visage imagine a gun against his head. Oh yes, how hated Sinclair knows he is. The Great Man pushes his own untouched glass aside with a final, exasperated sigh. "You are exhausting." _

"_I apologize. I've just put quite a bit of myself into Rapture, as you can imagine, and have a vested interest in her well-being. I don't mean to butt heads so often, I really don't."_

"_Right. Onto the real reason I asked you here... I require your services." _

"_I thought as much." Ryan puts up a hand in a tired but firm hush. _

"_I need someone, a threat, removed from the streets. I feel Persephone is a… good place for someone to disappear to." _

"_Who's the 'threat?'" _

"_The new public attraction: 'Johnny Topside' as they call him." _

_Augustus cocks his head, genuinely befuddled at that request. For the first time that entire evening, Sinclair's smile drops and is replaced by a rather confused line. "Pardon my askin' as I know it's unusual, but what'd the boy do? He doesn't seem dangerous." _

" _What hasn't he done is the real issue here, Sinclair. He showed up out of the blue from the surface, waltzed right into my city and refused to tell anyone anything about himself. We don't even know the man's real name. When people ask, he refuses. It's more than suspect. No one just stumbles upon Rapture. He came looking. He had the exact means to make it to the city and has only asked questions, never given any answers. Do you honestly think I'd believe some cooky story about diving for lost ships? No one cares enough about lost ships to go through great peril in the name of finding them. It's the ocean. They go missing all the time. He and whoever it is that he works for just needed an excuse to come snooping." _

"_I've heard crazier that were true, but who am I to say? You're the boss. He's a public figure, though. Popular. Getting him off the streets might raise a few eye-brows. People will wonder why he was arrested and if we don't tell them they'll wonder where he's gone." _

"_I don't care what you say. I want him gone. He jeopardizes the security of this city. You'll get paid whatever amount I think your efforts are worth." At that, Ryan stands, leaves a wad of cash on the table and slips from the hidden alcove, leaving Sinclair in stunned silence. The paranoia isn't new, but to have someone locked up on nothing but suspicion? Goodness, it is baffling. Still, he isn't going to argue. He can't. These paychecks keep him from the drop and his very unique services keep him from ending up behind the bars of his own prison. Ryan could easily "repossess" Persephone. Augustus knows he only has himself to blame in the regard. It's like he's tied his own hands. _

…

His feet feel so heavy. He can't remember ever feeling particularly light but he can note the added difficulty walking carries as of late. The best way he can think to describe it is being on the verge of falling unconscious from lack of sleep nearly every waking moment. He considers this with particular venom as he struggles down the stairwell leading to the cabins with a deathgrip on the railing. He tries not to let his metal-clad feet fall with such volume as night overtakes the sleeping vessel; however, he fears it's out of his control. From beyond his helm, Delta is sure his clanks echo from end-to-end of the entire ship.

He doesn't abandon the effort, though, as he passes room after room on the way to his own. He can't necessarily tip-toe but he does try to shakey, uneven results. It's an awful feeling, he must admit, to move at all; however, he fears that a lack of activity will debilitate him in some way. He can't run laps, of course, but walking about in just a calm manner until he becomes just far too tired to continue keeps his vague paranoia at bay. Delta's fragile train of thought derails as the doorknob he reaches for is suddenly pulled from his grasp. Before him, yellow visor meets increasingly-tired hazel eyes and halts any comprehension for a good minute.

"Evenin', chief." The big-daddy isn't sure how, but Sinclair manages to look both horrible and charming at the same time in spite of messy hair, hollow cheeks and bagged eyes.. It's a hopeful prospect for someone of… Delta's persuasion… Or maybe Augustus is just blessed and the younger man is void of hope for lack of a personality by design. "Am I such deplorable company? You're gone when I wake up and come back when I'm asleep. I haven't seen hardly any of you all week." In normal fashion, Delta's emotions come in extremes and he aggressively shakes his head to indicate his panicked denial. To it, Sinclair laughs softly and reaches out to pat his chest. "I'm just teasin', big hoss. I know you can't be lugging me around on your strolls. I just couldn't sleep, is all." In that respect, they couldn't blame one another. The suits weren't built for comfort and Delta didn't even remove his helmet to rest. The last time he tried to, Augustus had gone pale as a ghost and was moments short of begging him to keep it on. For a short while after surfacing in the pod, the older man had lacked his usual subtlety and said time had been brief but... insightful.

"Care to come in?" Augustus slips to the side in a lopsided hop and ushers Delta in via a flourish of his heavy hands. Delta wants to laugh, he really does. His attempts usually lead to a dry burning in the back of his throat and nothing more but this time he manages to give a muted grunt - it's an incident that, Delta remarks, causes Sinclair's lips to twitch just a tad more upwards with something akin to pride. The room beyond is something of a mess. To accommodate the suits that both men are trapped in, the dressings on the beds have been pulled onto the floor space between in a larger cot. It still isn't spacious; however, it's better than trying to squeeze either of their cumbersome bodies onto a singular bed. Aside from that, there are stacks of books and newspapers on both the desk and on the floor near the cot. There's been an attempt at neatness but the cabin's cluttered nature endures.

"Been missin' the company, if I'm honest," Augustus yawns. He manages to lower himself onto his side of the cot with an ample amount of exertion. "Eleanor's been too occupied with the kiddies to visit and I don't blame the little ones for bein' shy." Delta offers a groan as it's all he can muster. His own inability to vocalize beyond primitive, guttural moaning is irksome to say the least - especially since he certainly doesn't lack the cognitive skill to form coherent sentences. The small sounds he can give, though, seem to satiate Sinclair's social needs at least. He does seem the type to enjoy steering conversations, anyway. "It's not much longer, they tell me. Tomorrow mornin', in fact. We'll be droppin' in New York and I can't help but notice we lack a plan. I suppose that's my own fault since I'm the only one here with topside experience, so hold me to that one."

They had talked about it. It isn't like Eleanor has been mute on the topic - in fact, the girl is very vocal on trying to figure their situation out - but Augustus is right. He has the experience and he's been notably absent when said issue is raised. "I really am sorry. This whole ordeal's had me out of sorts. I have a lead, though. Before she left you with me, Tenenbaum told me about a fella she helped escape… Said he was workin' out in Pennsylvania as a tech-wiz - Porter, I think it was. I'm not sure about the Doctor's whereabouts but she said they keep in touch so maybe he can find her for us and she'll help cure our condition." It's something and a very hopeful something indeed. From what Delta knew of Tenenbaum, she was close with the protector program and surely would be the ultimate knowledge on the subject for them to consult. If anyone can free the two of them from their mesh and metal prisons, it's her. To the idea, Delta nods.

"Sounds good, then? I should still have some accounts on the surface so we can grab my cash and put ourselves up in a hotel until we get in touch with the doctor. Nothin' luxurious seein' as we got over a dozen little girls in our brood but it'll be liveable. I can't imagine us checking-in somewhere with them, though. I hope Eleanor can back me up. She seems capable." He's prattling. It's a rare occurrence and a sure sign of the man's nerves being frayed. He's shaking like an active power coil, too. Delta cocks his head - an action he's sure to exadurate by following through with his shoulders - and reaches out a slow and gentle hand to grasp Sinclair's forearm. It gives the other pause.

Augustus looks to choke on his words for a second like the contact has caused his tongue to slip into a tight knot which he struggles to disengage. "I… I'm fine, chief. Just a tad stir crazy, I think. Never fancied myself for a sailor. I'll be right as rain as soon as we're in New York." From under his helm, Delta's scarred lips twitch into a smile, not from the content of anything the man had said but rather from the peculiar way in which he said it. The Big Daddy enjoys Augustus's idiosyncrasies, his calm and smooth way of conveying his thoughts. He could fall asleep to it if only he possessed the means to ask the man to babble on for a while and Sinclair could do it, too - Delta is sure.

He suddenly feels a returned pressure on his wrist. "Look, kid... I'm not gonna lie, you're gettin' real slow... But just hang on for a while longer. We'll get through this. You made it through Rapture and the rest is a cakewalk. You'll see… and... " Sinclair chokes again. There's conflict written all over his sickly features. "...And… Try to get some rest." He finishes in an unsatisfying manner, a way that suggests he'd intended to end that sentence differently. The younger man can't prod, though he wishes he could. Goodness, if he could… He'd give Augustuts hell - well-meaning hell. No more bottling and deflecting but instead some openness born from constant and playful badgering. It's what Eleanor did. She'd proven herself to be quite the little therapist for some of the younger crew for certainly SOME things had rubbed off from her mother.

Her mother.

Now _Delta _is given pause. His mind races through the mental dossier he'd build on Sophia Lamb - a bag of mixed emotions. She was both right and wrong like one side of a scale constantly outweighing the other. She had something Rapture needed but employed it too forcefully. He hadn't much experience with the matter, but Delta knows enough to recognize both the faults and triumphs of Doctor Lamb's ideology on at least a basic level. He was no genius but he wasn't a splicer.

However, no… It isn't that that troubles him. Reaching back into what feels like distant memory, Delta grasps the image of drowning Sophia glaring at him from beyond the alloy pane. The pod shoots skyward and she never once removes her gaze from him… not even when she forces away the rebreather Eleanor offers. The ascent is quick… but not quick enough... Not for Sophia... Eleanor took no grievance with releasing her body back into the ocean. Delta isn't sure what he expected. Perhaps a moment of silence for the woman who had given Eleanor so much of her time? A parting sentiment? Sophia got neither. She was removed from the vessel and Eleanor spoke no more on the matter. It almost leaves a lump in the Big Daddy's stomach. He hasn't any feelings for the woman, of course, but it still seems… off.

"Solvin' riddles in there?" Sinclair taps Delta's helm with an exhausted chuckle. It's warm. Pleasant in ways he can't exactly describe. "You do enjoy daydreamin' tonight. Maybe you should get to some _real _dreamin' and cut out the middle man." He'd be a liar if he says sleep isn't the most intoxicating idea... He hates needing it… Still, Delta settles himself onto his side of the cot and allows himself to fall back against the pillows with the heavy, hollow thud. His hands reach around behind the piles of fluff in as much of an embrace as he can manage through layers of metal and mesh. "Why, uh… Why don't you take the helmet off? Probably sleep better, huh?" It isn't the first time he's made the suggestion. Delta's hesitant, of course, considering how Augustus reacted on the pod and he hasn't removed the uppermost level of his armor since… Well, he's averse to the exposure.

"Come on, big hoss…" His face almost looks… sad... "I know… How I acted back… you know, I just… It's not fair a' me to put my feelin's before your personal comfort. I just... Had a lot on my mind and… Nevermind, just… You really should take it off. Get some fresh air on your skin and actually feel the pillows and blankets." Metal-tipped fingers tap the rims of the helm's latches… Then another set joins the first. Delta almost jumps when Sinclair's right hand reaches out and gently thumbs over one of the valves on Delta's collar. "How… do you work these, exactly?" He tries a devilish smile against his obvious sleep deprivation and grips the valve a little tighter. The younger man sees what he's doing.

'_You know what,' _he thinks with a deep sigh. '_I'll bite._' Delta maneuvers his hand in alongside Sinclair's, brushing his fingers aside just enough to grip the valve and begin to turn it. He twists it thrice inward and a little tube underneath the crank puffs a short burst of steam. Augustus follows Delta's lead and reaches over to do the same with the other crank to an identical result. The younger man watches him treat the device as though it were fragile… It certainly only but… he isn't going to object. The older man looks at the visor before moving his hand up to one of the second set of valves. He doesn't turn it immediately, instead watching the yellow porthole for any negative reaction. Said reaction didn't come - wasn't going to come… not yet, at any rate. He presses on in an attempt at turning the valve inward to no avail. He quickly reasons his way through it and turns it the other way and got the steam. Delta doesn't help anymore. He simply waits as the other man releases the final valve and sits back expectantly.

Delta presses on and reaches up to undo the final latch just below the lip of the helmet. It's like a tiny lever just upon the center of his pectorals. One final gust of warm, damp air sweeps from under the armor piece and ushers in an intoxicating wave of new, cold air towards the big daddy's face. It's industrial in scent but not at all unpleasant. It's new paint, nylon carpets and slept-in sheets... And something else a little more musky… Maybe himself? Sinclair? It's not bad, just… All he can think to call it is 'salty.' Maybe sweat… Delta's thumbs hook under the lip and only apply the barest of pressure before halting. His arms are shaking... He sees Sinclair's suddenly bright and curious eyes staring back at him, only seeing the helm and not once prior giving the younger man true eye-contact. It's anticipation of the most poignant flavor. He has to have an expectation and it's going to be one left unmet at the very least and completely destroyed at worst.

In spite of himself and his firm belief in ripping off bandages when needed, Delta grips hard to the release latches No, he isn't keen on this… on any of this... It's sickening for reasons beyond him; however, he feels he can compromise… maybe. One hand drops from a latch and extends with an upturned palm, shakey as can be. Sinclair looks lopsidedly at the gesture while presenting a sideways grin. Eventually, he does take it with his own slightly shaky hand to be guided up through the small crack under the helm. Mesh-imprisoned fingers make somewhat unpleasant contact with the sensitive skin beneath to Augustus's momentary surprise as he's been coaxed without much preamble. Delta guides the other's fingers across the right side of his face, over concave cheeks, an uneven jaw and then over part of a crooked, swollen nose-bridge. Sinclair attempts to focus, it seems, on the minimal details he can discern from beyond his thickly-clothed digits and yet gives only little indications by way of a raised brow here or a small lip twitch there.

The Big Daddy doesn't allow much more as he removes the other's hand and quickly reseals his armor. It's only when both of Delta's uncharacteristically-swift hands drop to his lap does Sinclair speak with a hand held awkwardly in the space where it had been left. "Ain't nothin' to be ashamed of, sport," he says with a distant voice. " Fair, you don't have to do anythin' you don't wanna but… You were spliced worse than a lot of folks down there and you came back from it... Stand up tall." There is a sentiment that means more than Sinclair could've ever known and it is perhaps because it sounds earnest - unbeknownst to the man who spoke it. In the time Delta has known the Panamanian, he's caught on to little, subtle tells that Augustus himself might not even know he has. They are mere changes in sentence complexity and tone - very small and expertly hidden as long as contact with the man is kept at a minimum. When Agustus means something, his verbiage is simpler. He needn't waste brain power to convince for he himself is already convinced and he conveys it clearly. It's when Sinclair chooses to brandish a sly smile and a thesaurus of southern idioms that one should scrutinize. Here, he is being plain. Yes, he wields a smile but it's gentle. It's only a slight upturn of his lip-corners.

Delta cocks his head, though. He sees a slight change in the air. It's a tinge of color to the other's left side which draws his attention to the window through the back wall. Burgeoning shafts of early light break through the blue tinge and give the cabin a warmer tone. In spite of his absolute exhaustion, the big daddy shuffles upright and hobbles to the opening. Far beyond, over miles of sea, the stars still reflect and the sky might still appear wrapped in a veil of night if not for the growing shade of blue gradually shifting the hue from navy to azure.

"I'm guessin' we should bring Eleanor in here and talk about a more… detailed plan of action," Sinclair breathes with a suddenly hesitant resonance.

…

The girls got a whole heap of good-byes. Gentle bodies gave warm embraces and hands gave thoughtful gifts in the way of well-loved books or toys sewn from pillow stuffing and washcloths. Among those kind few who gave so much to make the voyage tolerable for the lot of them, there were voices of anticipation - seeing wives and sons and daughters, tasting a real home-cooked meal, sleeping in a bed that didn't sway and walking on streets that didn't thrash about. He pegged a lot of them accurately. They were fathers and grandfathers - the older ones - and the youngers were keen on finding affections of any sort or going home to a young, childless belle. Sinclair remembered his own free-spirited adolescence and the "conquests" he undertook. He never had his own children, however - not that he knew of. Never married. He hadn't even any family to step off the boat to go and meet. Sure, he might've had some alive out in his birthlands, but they weren't anyone he'd try to seek out after spending years trapped with a whole asylum of drugged-up maniacs.

Even so, standing on deck with support from one of Delta's tree-trunk arms and seeing the monoliths of New York rise through the early fog was like coming home to a warm, loving hug. Eleanor was clung to the railing and leaning as far over as Delta would allow, him moaning if she pushed out a tad too far. Her eyes were like saucers. The children were kept from the sides and corralled into a circle of jumping, delighted squeals… Save for the little one that had first clung to Sinclair back on the pod - Odette. Her tiny, pale hands clung to a strip of fabric from her dress and twisted it as she swayed to and fro. Augustus watched her just... stand there, maybe move if someone else got too close. She was still so ailing in appearance when the other girls had already regained decent color. Eleanor had mentioned something about her hair being brittle as well and even having a fever one morning.

Her tiny green eyes glance up and settle upon the two men. It's like they're her key to escape and she jumps at the chance to pad over. She latches onto a loose rumple of mesh on Augustus's good leg. "H-hey, sweet pea," he coughs.

"Hi," comes her weak reply slightly muffled by her pressing her face into the suit.

"You, uh… Feelin' alright, honey?"

"Mm-hm."

Delicately, Sinclair dips a hand down and runs the metal-tipped fingers gently over the dome of Odette's head. Even through the gloves, he can discern the awful scratchiness of her dull locks. Through a muddled sigh, he says "Oh sweet heart... " He turns to the big daddy who is already glancing at the child with a deathgrip on Augustus's leg. "We can't find Tanenbaum soon enough, chief." As the ship makes its way into the port, Sinclair's mind races to go over everything Tanenbaum had told him before leaving with her own group of little sisters. There was a man named Porter in… Pennsylvania. He worked on computers… Might be able to look him up or ask around if he was well-known enough… Yes, he needed to unfreeze one of his accounts, get them into a hotel, find that "Porter" fella and get Tanenbaum to New York ASAP.

As he's walked down the ramp, he doesn't even notice the stares.

_AN ~ I know this is a shorter chapter and really late, but as I started to write this, shit hit the fan and I had to square a lot of things away before getting back to my hobbies. I hope everyone is safe and doing well and maybe I can get back into writing now and help entertain a few people during the quarantine. _


	4. Chapter 4: Mister Porter

_The call wasn't a pleasant one. The man on the other end was irate, to say the least. It isn't by any fault of hers or of her employer, though, as many call in intending to hire a lawyer but then devolving into a tirade about one thing or another which might've led to them approaching the practice. As she hangs up the phone, she only momentarily dwells on the jaggedly-spun tale of a cheating wife and a missing box of savings once stashed in a wall somewhere for something else draws her eye and not for the first time this afternoon - or even all week. _

_Her boss has been, put simply, busy. He's been rushing about, putting things in order, closing debts, contacting long-time clients and transferring the practice to a new owner. "It's temporary," he'd said a month prior when all the fuss began in earnest but no one is holding him to that. It isn't that he's one to lie, really, but more that his behavior spoke otherwise. She had tried to ask him once. She was thrown some sloppy, unfocused mumble about a business opportunity and that was that. She isn't worried about him. No, she's worried about her career. _

_Presently, he's in his office and barely visible through a little dent in his blinds. He's quickly scribbling something down on a notebook with a fine pen. Once finished, he places the book - and the pen - in a briefcase to be locked up and put aside. She isn't the only one sneaking a glance through the portal. The other clerk just across the way is sharing her sense of curiosity and they lock eyes just before the form beyond the window shifts and strides to his office door. He's among them without much preamble and still very distracted. _

_Augustus Sinclair, even when his mind seems elsewhere, still looks as presentable as ever. She's sure she'd never see him otherwise. His thick, black hair is neatly combed and slicked delicately against his scalp, his facial hair is finely shaved into a barely-noticeable shadow and his suit is pressed and straightened against his lean figure. He's a handsome man, to be sure. He draws the eye - even without his signature debonair grin that she's sure could melt the guard of even the most ruthless warmonger. She's taken back just a pinch when said smile is aimed at her and he's set the briefcase down just on the edge of her workspace. _

"_Helen, madam, I need to ask a favor of you - one of a more personal nature." _

_Helen recognizes his tone, it's a soothing plea for sympathy - not quite begging but certainly trying to stress some importance. She puts aside her work - admittedly untouched - and eyes him oddly. _

"_What do you need?" Mister Sinclair pushes the case slightly. _

"_So, I'm going away for a while - not forever, just for a little while - and I feel I can trust you with this. I need you to hold onto this case for me. It's just got some documents that I need to keep here while I'm away. I don't care where you put it, it just needs to be safe so I can get it back from you once I return." _

_The other clerk, Serina, peers around Sinclair's form to cock a brow at her which she spares a brief - but equally as confused - glance. "This… Doesn't have anything illegal in it, right?" _

"_No, of course not. I wouldn't thrust that on you, ma'am. It's just some personal documents. Could you do this for me?" Helen gapes for a moment before shrugging. _

"_I suppose so, sir. How long are you going to be gone?"_

_He waves a dismissive hand as he lets go of the handle. His tone is flippant as though speaking of an upcoming holiday. "No more than a year at the very most. I'll leave plenty to make sure you and Missus Regan are taken care of. Now, I gotta catch a boat. Apologies for the short notice, ladies. I hope to get back to you soon." He's waving over his shoulder and out the door before either of them can formulate a coherent response. Serina sighs. _

"_Helen, my dear, I have the awful notion that we are never going to see that man again." She looks to the older woman with shock. _

"_What makes you say that?" _

"_Oh, I saw it in my first husband. When a man gets like that, he's gotten himself lost. He's chasing something sweet and a man like Augustus doesn't come back from that goose chase." Helen taps her nails against the aged leather of the case left so carefully in her charge. She hopes beyond hope that Serina is wrong. _

…

The call came early that morning. She almost missed it through her exhaustion keeping her so heavily chained to her bed, but Helen caught the machine just in time to rush out two greetings that might've been a tad too loud. There was but a beat of silence before a tired, raspy voice returned the sentiment with an attempt of sweetness. Even with it's beaten tone, the voice was so familiar that she imagined his face the moment she heard it. Her recognition left her stuttering. "M-mister Sinclair?" she gaped, catching herself midway through and lowering the tone of her voice. On the other end, she could almost feel his smile.

"Helen... It's been a good minute, hasn't it?"

Now she finds herself twisting and turning through the crowd of a dock, workers stomping from ships and warehouses to different ships and different warehouses. There is the occasional bar or market stall along the walk, but they aren't anything she's familiar with nor anything she'd fit dressed as sharply as she is. Perhaps she's overdressed for this, she thinks. She's meeting an old employer outside a pub, after all - not even in the pub or with an offer for drinks. Perhaps it is the image she still keeps of him in the back of her mind - a lean, charming businessman in a crisp suit and with expertly kept hair - that motivates her.

Helen skirts around a man hoisting a rattling box before finally finding the pub she'd been directed to. It's closed. The windows are dusty, the wooden door is eaten and void of the paint it might have once had and it looks like life hasn't really seen the place in about five years. She walks to the door and glances about, a case held at her pelvis by both hands. She scans the more scarce group meandering about this section of the walk, however she doesn't see the face she remembers so vividly.

Part of her - a very foolish but loud part - wonders if she'd dreamed the call that morning. Had she been so tired that she heard the voice of her long-gone employer in a sort of waking-dream? Yes, him coming back after all this time now seems unlikely when given any thought. He'd vanished without a trace and that year went by as did the one after that and the one after that. Serina spread the rumor for a while that he'd been lost at sea, not even believing it herself. They laughed at that for only a year… Then they worried... Then they moved on. Augustus Sinclair and his little law firm became just a little paragraph in their novels, but she held onto that case… She held onto it through her career and even through her marriage. She kept it in the back of the attic and told her husband it was heirlooms whenever asked. Something inside her begged her to keep it.

Now something's telling her she's an idiot. Maybe it's right. Maybe she should turn and chuck this damned case into the harbor and finally be rid of a life-long-

"Helen?"

It sends a chill up her spine… Like hearing a ghost.

She turns and expects to see perhaps an older version of the young man in her head, the man who smiled and asked her to keep the little leather package all those years ago - perhaps a little wrinkled and maybe a little grey but still as charming and well put together as he'd always been. She couldn't imagine him any other way...

Now she can.

Helen cannot comprehend how it's possible, but the man she sees before her is both certainly Augustus Sinclair and looks nothing like the man she remembers. Hollow cheeks and sunken eyes look at her with a weakly-attempted smile. His skin is pale, his hair is a messy mop and raked with grey along the sides and a bit through the poorly-brushed top. His facial hair is scratchy and unshaven and his crisp, clean suit is replaced by a bulky, brass abomination that she cannot wrap her head around. She's at a total loss… there's no other way to say it.

"Goodness, don't you look as lovely as ever… Wouldn't hurt my feelin's if you didn't say the same. I know I look like a wreck." He leans against the side of the building, obviously keeping pressure off of one of his legs. Helen finally finds her words in a meek, strangled choke.

"Augustus... What did you do…?" She doesn't mean for it to sound so accusatory. He doesn't seem to mind.

"Made one titan of a mistake, my dear... But it looks to be that trustin' you with that case wasn't another one. I didn't think you'd have kept it after so long, but I am so glad you did. I'm in a bit of a bind without it."

"I… Augustus, where did you go? Where have you been? You said you'd be gone a year at most, and now… My God, you look like… like you were just spit back into the world by some ungodly beast!"

"I'm aware I look terrible. You don't have to rub salt in the wound."

"I'm serious!"

Sinclair laughs. It's weak… Painfully so. "I know, doll… I know. Things didn't go quite right… I'm not sure if you'd believe my story."

"Mister Sinclair, you could shoot me a tale about a fire-breathing dragon and it'd be better than having no explanation at all after all this time."

The older man laughs again, shoots her a bittersweet grin that almost resembles something she might have recalled once upon a time and says "You're not far from the truth... " He sighs. "But, I think you'd be safer not knowin', at least for now. Maybe if you keep in touch, I'll enthrall you with it all one day."

"You won't tell me _anything_?" To say she's disappointed is an understatement of astronomical proportions - even more so when she spies the clear, apologetic smile he gives in return.

"I'm sorry. I don't know if all of this is gonna come back and bite me _again_. I don't want you to end up in the line of fire. I'm not aimin' to uproot you after all this time."

"It can possibly be that bad... "

"Darlin', look at me. It is." The smile drops and is replaced by a downtrodden, beaten plea. It's a silent, tired plea - one from a man at the end of his rope, getting too tired to hang on. It made her believe him. Silently, Helen steps forward and reaches out with one hand on the handle of the aged, dusty case. The heavy, thickly-gloved hand opposite to her takes it as best it can and she slips her fingers away without protest. Helen folds her hands at her stomach and offers her own weak smile.

"I got married," She says. He smiles a little more warmly.

"To that old boy you were smitten with, I hope."

"The same one. Our daughter's turning two in a few months." She can see something in his eyes. As cruel as it might seem, she thinks she likes them better than the ones she remembers. The eyes from years ago could hide all manner of secrets, but these… They bare all. They are books torn open and left to scatter to the wind. That something she sees is hurt and joy stuck in a fond, parting embrace. Maybe those eyes are even a little moist, a little warm, a little bright and a little sullen.

"Congratulations," he says through a minor crack in his tone, still smiling.

"Thank you." The smile drifts away to one less genuine, much more masking. He shuffles back a step into the shadow of the abandoned structure.

"I hope now, maybe…" he looks at the case, "...You can finally forget me." It hurts. She feels a sinking in her gut like someone is pulling her stomach out through a hole in her back. It's all so much… His face, his eyes, his voice… It can't be real. He grins one last time and, with a nod, turns and hobbles his way back into the din beyond the pub. Helen waits until she's sure he's long gone before turning and walking back down the docks the way she'd come.

Then it comes to mind. She ponders the thought and then lets it settle when she decides it's the truth.

Augustus Sinclair did die at sea.

…

He becomes lost in himself for a while. He sits on the hotel bed, listens to the children dig through drawers and draw on pamphlets with the pens provided to the room and doesn't register a thing. For the first time in weeks, not even Delta's labored breaths seem to bother him. He feels like he isn't even in his own body- like he's sitting on the other bed watching his shell stare off into space. No one bothers him. They let him sit. They let him stare at himself. It's dark out by the time Sinclair finally comes to and Eleanor has taken half the children to the second room with her and leaves half asleep between the two beds in the first. Augustus hadn't even noticed that a couple of them were resting at his back.

When he does notice, he gets up and hobbles to the window. The curtains are open and his mind almost expects to see fish wriggle past when he leans into the pane. Instead, he sees smoke rising from rooftops, cars gliding past on four wheels, people strolling along sidewalks heading downtown. Surreal doesn't even begin to cover it. It's like he's gone from one dream and into the next.

"You need to rest." Her voice startles him a tad. He doesn't jump, necessarily, but does lightly gasp. She speaks soothingly. He guesses his behavior emits a sense of fragility requiring such caution.

"I wasted a day," He replies in barely a whisper. "I need to make some progress before shutting down tonight. Any leads on the Porter Fella?"

"I underlined some things in the phone book for you to try. It's late, though. No one would pick up until morning. There isn't anything you can do right now." Sinclair hops a turn, able to better use his broken leg to balance than before. His eyes gaze past Eleanor on instinct and spy Delta resting with his back against one of the beds. His helm is dipped down to suggest sleep, an observation aided by the steep - though ragged - rise and fall of his chest. She sees it. Of course she sees it. "You can't help him without your strength." And she's right. Augustus resigns himself to hobble over to the other sleeping protector, waving off aid from the young woman when her hands reach for him. He slides down onto the carpeted floor beside Delta.

"Head on back, doll. Can't leave the little ones alone for too long. I'll watch him tonight." Even the pet name doesn't mask the sternness in his tone. She whispers a good-night before walking out. What he does next is on total impulse, one he doesn't even try to force down. He taps Delta's porthole continuously until the larger man stirs. He imagines that, under the armor, his face is asking 'Why?' He wastes no time in answering. "You need to take that off." He isn't asking. He isn't being gentle. It's forceful, though not exactly a command - much like a parent telling their spawn that they need to eat their greens. Delta cocks his head and Sinclair persists. "I know you're scared, big hoss, but we can't keep dancing around this like you need a damned occasion. It's dead weight, something we don't need to lug around."

In response, Delta stares, the view behind the porthole obscured by some internal rim-lighting that produces a glare on the artificially-fogged glass. It was an attempt to hide the human traits of the brutes; however, Delta appeared to be using it for an entirely different purpose. Any other time, Sinclair might've cut his losses and tried again later. Not tonight. "I mean it, Delta. You don't have the energy to keep dancin'." He stares back with little emotion, only a clear expectation. It's more evident that Delta is entirely at a loss. He can't argue, he can't explain the intricacies of his objection with only hand motions - All he can do is stare. They both just… Stare.

On the other end, the larger man isn't sure how he feels. He's not angry. He's not scared. He just… doesn't want to take it off in spite of Augustus's rather sound logic. Delta _is _getting weaker, the helmet _does _weigh a considerable amount and is extra baggage that he can fairly easily divorce himself from. Outside of Rapture, it doesn't even hold a function. In the end, Delta doesn't know why he's so averse to removing it. If Sinclair knew that much, he's sure the man would double his efforts. Of course, that's assuming that that isn't what he's already doing. This is certainly a forceful change from every other attempt. No sweet words, no honeyed reassurance. He disturbed Delta's sleep, as well. It's when the thought comes to the younger man that perhaps Sinclair is the one with an issue at the moment. That day's almost catatonic episode was evidence enough.

On a whim, Delta settles a hand on Augustus's shoulder and squeezes, just hard enough to be felt through the thick fiber. It's like hitting a switch. The hardness of the opposing expression practically melts leaving the other struggling to sustain it. His brows twitch in tandem with rapid blinks before a cringe overtakes Sinclair's features. He stands, almost falls over from lack of balance, and rushes to the bathroom. It happens so fast that Delta's head spins.

…

The bathroom was a bad idea - the worst idea. The floors are a gaudy, colorful tile muted by the buzzing, yellowish overhead lights and the vanity set framing the mirror. It reminds him of the deluxe and it terrifies him. Why does it terrify him? There aren't any windows, the ceiling has a brown splotch of water damage... It's all so much, too much. He feels his airways constricting. Sinclair tries to brace his hands against the countertop like it'll ground him but it does nothing. His heart is in his ears. Then it comes like a freight train… like when some kids sent him a watered-down molotov over the numo…. Dread.

Like the world is ending.

Like he's going to die any second now.

Like the world is imploding and all he can do is sit and watch. His eardrums are throbbing, lungs screaming. He can't stop the tears. He doesn't even realize that he's crying until he sees his own face in the mirror. There aren't even any sobs, just a nonstop, open stream. His entire body is consumed by an angry, constant quaking. He can even feel a blackness creeping into the corners of his vision, tunneling, zoning in on just himself in the mirror. It's the first time he's allowed himself to look at his own face. It's the face of a stranger… A disgusting, sinful, stranger undeserving of being a survivor. In his place, he can name so many who should be there. Grace Holloway, Gilbert Alexander, even Stanley Poole might deserve it more than him. Some are still alive… So far below the sea… Trapped in a giant system of inescapable tubes… Where he should have died. The dread continues to drag itself outwards from his chest, into his lungs and then his stomach which starts to ache and churn violently to a point where he clutches his abdomen. He almost retches into the sink.

The groan that escapes his throat is involuntary - not loud, but certainly there - a bleat, more like… The rush of sound opens his airways just a little, enough for him to take deeper breaths. He follows one up with another and another. Gradually, his heart starts to settle though following the lungs. His stomach isn't far behind. But the dread… It doesn't leave. Even after he fakes a smile as he leaves the bathroom and heads to bed on the other side of the room, it's still there… Making his hands shake... Making his mind breed thoughts he'd only once prior entertained.

…

_How many days has it been? He refuses to score ticks into the wall for the sake of his sanity as he'd rather forget than be reminded of the unintended longevity of his solitude. Even Tenenbaum has been silent as of late, something that concerns him to a degree he's not quite ready to admit. For now, all he can do is watch the screen. Some cameras around the sector have been destroyed or blinded by substances he can only imagine, but a decent amount are still in working order and paint a picture of devastation that leaves him wondering how Rapture hasn't already flooded and killed them all. _

_His eyes hurt. The single red light in the room isn't helping. Neither are his glasses._

_For the fifth time in the past ten minutes, Sinclair rubs his eyes with the thumb and index finger of his right hand. Someone's running a seam-ripper through the middle of his life. He wonders when the Splicers will return to bang against his door... They've been fairly consistent about their daily rounds to the train station, thinking he had plasmids stored with him. In truth, he did - just one. It's a single dose of lightning and he's unsure if he could ever muster the strength to inject it - partially for fear of losing some of his already waning sanity and partially for fear of how badly it'd hurt. First time splices always hurt. _

_Today, the Splicers haven't come. In response, Augustus hasn't much to offer. He isn't relieved... Just wondering if they'll wake him up later or finally get the door open while he sleeps, ending his admittedly lengthy streak surviving in the ruins of Andrew Ryan's utopia. He can't fend off the splicers... Not anymore. He is slow, starving, dehydrated, old... Perfect prey for just about any creature wanting some flesh. What they choose to do with his body, he doesn't much care anymore. He'll be dead and won't have to watch as he's slit open from hip to hip or crushed under a metal boot. He'll be sure he's dead. His right index finger taps idly on the grip of a pistol set off on the lip of the console where he'd tracked the flooding until quite recently. The lights have all gone out and he has only the cameras on the one screen to flip through as "entertainment." It's all the same. All he can see is the death of all hope there ever was of seeing the sun again. His finger stops on the grip and gives the gun a little, lazy spin. He does it a few times before catching the weapon and inspecting it. It's in poor condition, something he'd expect from one he'd taken off of a dead resident on his way to the station weeks ago. It had served him well for a while, picking off the few splicers in the area when he first arrived so he could gather supplies. Now, the degenerates have moved in with full force and the measly four bullets he had left would just be wasted lead. One of them was reserved anyway. _

_Maybe the other three could help some other poor soul who'd eventually stumble upon this awful hovel. He weighs his options. Sinclair has half a jar of clean water... no food, no medicine and a gun with four bullets. Outside, there are splicers everywhere, a train that wasn't moving anytime soon, horrible flooding everywhere and no clear way for him to leave the city without needing the fire power of an entire army. The cherry on top is his loss of all communication with any other sane human being. For Augustus, it's clear, cut and dry. Hope in the impossible is what got him here and he isn't one to be fooled twice. He'll take the egg on his face for coming to Rapture in the first place, but he'll shoot himself before he starves to death or gets taken in the night by a bunch of drugged-up lunatics he himself helped manufacture. Again, cut and dry. _

_Sinclair loads a bullet into the chamber. _

…

A knife cut the kind silence of early morning somewhat jaggedly as he enjoyed his coffee. The sun was barely above the skyline when the phone rang which befuddled him. Yes, he got calls early once a full moon or so, but never _this _much so. A part of him guesses either a misdirected dial or - most unlikely - something is wrong upstate. He picks up and greets as cheerily as he can manage on only three sips of caffeinated liquid. "Charles Porter speaking, how may I help you?" He waited for the person on the other end to apologize and hang up, but the girl that answered didn't seem keen on that.

"Charles _Milton _Porter?" Her accent is clearly English and dusted with the barest hint of sleep.

"Yes, that's me. Who is this?"

"Before I answer that, I have a question." She waits like she wants his permission.

"Okay... ? Go ahead."

"Does the name 'Rapture' mean anything to you?" His heart drops. Only for the barest hint of a second does he try to rationalize that the girl on the other end is a very dedicated evangelical aiming to save his soul on this budding day, but he knows that that, what most would consider the logical answer, is outlandish. His voice lowers.

"Who is calling?"

"Someone who desperately needs to get into contact with Brigid Tenenbaum."

"You're from Rapture."

"We've made it to the mainland. We're in New York in a hotel on the bay. Can you get her to us? I don't mean to sound dramatic, but it's life or death." He pauses and looks around his kitchen as though someone might be listening, even in his single-person household.

"What's the address?"

…

"She didn't give a name?" Brigid walks fast for a woman in heels, even authoritatively. She's dressed in an old blouse and skirt topped with the messiest ponytail Charles has ever seen. Simply put, she looks very much like herself which bodes well with him, especially considering that he hasn't seen her in months.

"No. She sounded English, though. European for sure. Said she needed you and an expert on Big Daddies but she didn't elaborate. Kept things real brief."

"Smart. Eleanor Lamb for sure."

"Lamb? Like that fanatic?"

Tenenbaum waves a hand and shakes her head in tandem. "Her mother. Eleanor is not like her. Eleanor is grown little sister, free of the effects. It's a long story." They carry luggage with them through the terminal, impatiently waiting at checkpoints for checking until they can finally walk out to the pick-up area for their taxi.

"I'm going to hazard a wild guess and say she has someone like me with her."

"That is my hope. His name is Subject Delta, he is an ancient model, by Rapture standards. Same as you were. He was Eleanor's protector when she was just a little one."

"An actual protector. Can't say I've ever had a civil conversation with one. This should be an educational experience."

"One way to put it." He opens the cab door for her and then slides in on the other side. The ride to the bay is silent, in spite of the driver's insistence of polite banter. It's probably for the best and seems to suit Tenenbaum over the alternative. For someone who had once been considered one of Rapture's elite, she isn't much of a socialite.

They arrive at the hotel far too late for Brigid's liking. She has a sense of urgency about her entire demeanor that is rarely absent where Rapture is concerned. It gets her into the lobby and searching a small crowd with the vigor of a first-time splicer with much less positive enthusiasm. It's a strangely graceful mix of that and a business persona. She doesn't have to search long. A girl in a very "Rapture-Esque" bodysuit is sitting in a recliner just outside of the buzzing lounge. Her eyes go from lost in thought to bright like spotlights when she spies Brigid in the crowd. She almost leaps from the chair and rushes to Tenenbaum with an embrace that the older woman allows in a brief, scarce moment of affection.

"Where is he, Child?"

"In one of our rooms. Come on." The girl - Eleanor, as it appears - takes Brigid's hand and leads her towards the stairs with Charles on their heels. The older woman takes that moment of transit as a chance to introduce him passingly by simply motioning towards him and stating his name. It gains him a nod from his new acquaintance, but the topic is swiftly changed to one of someone's "condition." He's not exactly well versed on what's going on, but his prognosis from earshot is that it's terminal.

They go up a couple floors and walk to the end of the hall to a set of rooms. She knocks quickly on the door of the first before pushing into the second which is already unlocked. Inside, Children are scattered about… Tattered dresses and messy heads of free-flowing hair play on beds or sit in circles around a brute-ish form whose back is leaned against one of the two beds. The children's bodies aren't dirty - they have obviously bathed - but they clearly lack any new clothes for one reason or another. In fact, how did they even manage to get into a hotel?

The form on the floor with them is a Big Daddy, Alpha series. He's slumped a little and has awful posture but is very much alive. His helmet turns to greet Brigid. The woman is quick to start talking quietly with the suited behemoth, keeping Charles very much out of the loop with a spinning head. Every single part of this endeavor so far has been swifter than the thrust of a sword. Eleanor has the decency to approach him now, though. Credit where it's due.

"Thank you," she says with a slightly shaky voice trying to be warm. "I was worried it would take too long…. And I might lose him."

"Never thought little sisters would keep up the bond after growing up."

"We're a special case. We'll have time to catch you up soon enough."

"I'm very curious."

Another voice from behind the two joins the mix through the sound of a closing door. To Charles, it's an uncanny kind of familiar that he can't quite place. "Dangerous thing, that." The owner rounds the two of them by taking Eleanor's shoulders and moving her aside gently. To Porter's shock, he is also in a protector suit - minus the helmet. He leans heavily to one side and relies on the walls of the room some to maneuver. "Good to see you again, doc." It's that greeting that pulls Tenenbaum from her examination. Her head darts about with the barest hint of a smile that drops like a sack of bricks as soon as she sees him.

"Sinclair... What happened?" She motions to him with a single hand and he tries a chuckle and warm grin.

"Doesn't suit me, huh?" There's no response and he continues. "Sophia Lamb. Tried to help Delta find Eleanor and some of her flock managed to snatch me up. Put me in this suit and forced a messed-up version of hypnotize down my throat," he huffs. "Told this big idiot to kill me, I wasn't worth it, but I guess he had other ideas." He motions to Delta who seems to be watching him with invested attention - all the while, Charles is silently toiling over the name. It, too - like the voice - is familiar and it almost makes Charles sick with frustration.

"So you would be their financier. I was wondering how they managed this."

"It's the least I could do… All things considered... " The last part is spoken in an unexpectedly withdrawn tone. "Though, I'm afraid it won't keep us long. I put plenty away for an emergency, but it was meant to sustain _me_ for a good while. This many mouths to feed and house? Won't last us but… I dunno, maybe a month? Two if we're careful."

"Do not fret," Tenenbaum reassures, patting Delta's shoulder as she moves to fiddle with a latch on his helmet. "Everything will be taken care of. First, however, we must help the two of you."

It's like turning on a light.

"Sinclair... Augustus Sinclair…?" Porter's tone is accusatory, laced with a kind of venom he didn't know he still had. The man turns and cocks a brow, voice allowing an appropriate air of caution.

"Yes."

Charles squints over his glasses and points a stiff finger at the older man. His lips curl up just enough to show the barest hint of his canines as he speaks. "You…. You were the one with the prison! The one who put me in jail!" Tenenbaum stops on the third latch and all of the eyes in the room fall on Porter. He brushes past Eleanor so he can be eye-to-eye with Augustus. The next he speaks, his voice is lower, a growl. "From what I heard, you put a lot of people in jail... And then sold them to the highest bidder. You sold _me _to Fontaine."

He expects denial. Cowardice... Something fitting of the slightly frightened face that stares back at Porter from over the wide collar of the protector suit. "Yes. I did." That isn't what he gets. Somehow, he's partially impressed and partially more inclined to punch the man in the face, maybe intentionally go for the teeth as some form of comeuppance - even if Sinclair seems to have been through the wringer already. Anything that he'd been through until this point wasn't enough. It would never be enough. He shows restraint, though. Just enough to get a few words out.

"You have anything to say for that?" Tenenbaum is grabbing his sweater and trying to pull him away. He brushes her aside and keeps her back with one arm as he stares Augustus down. The startled widening of Sinclair's eyes is replaced with an icy, barren glare. His lips go tight. He swallows and breathes deeply before answering in a flat tone.

"No."

Charles feels the stitching rip as he lunches and plants his right knuckles into Sinclair's temple against Tenenbaum's grasp. Just as suddenly, two sets of hands are on his forearms and dragging him back, getting him to the other side of the room before Sinclair slumps against the adjacent wall with a hiss and clutching, metal-clad fingers. There's a bass-y moan as the Alpha on the floor is suddenly up and rushing to Sinclair's side. Porter almost spits.

"That man probably did this to you!" he snaps. "He did it to me! And probably to nearly every single protector that ever "lived" in Rapture and he can't even muster up the effort to fake an apology!"

The older man brushes off Delta's hand, glaring back with a look so pointed that it almost makes Charles shrink. "And what good would that do, huh? Would "sorry" make everything go away? Would it get Delta out of this suit or make it so Rapture never happened? I refuse to insult everyone in this room."

"You deserve to be stuck in that suit." There's a twitch. The glare softens and Sinclair blinks rapidly before letting out a short, defeated snort.

"Yeah."

Just like that, the tension just… sinks. It doesn't melt, it sinks... Drops from burning to freezing, stinging cold. Silence stretches for long minutes as Augustus moves his hand and allows Delta to help him find his balance again - the larger Alpha having a strangely gentle hand with his older companion, taking him by the shoulders and holding on until he's sure the other won't topple over again. The tenderness allows Sinclair to avert his eyes towards the helm and force a twitch that one might consider a very brief smile.

"Charles," Tenenbaum begins slowly. "Sinclair helped me in Rapture. He helped Delta save all these little ones. Put this conflict aside. For now, he is an ally." Porter yanks away from both her and Eleanor, ducking out of the room without any more words. In his wake, there only stretches more silence.


	5. Chapter 5: Pairbond

_-Author's Note-_

_Guys, I read up as much as I could about Bioshock, but I promise I am STILL about to fuck up some lore. Be gentle on me._

* * *

"_There are loved ones in the glory; whose dead forms you often miss... _" She's quiet, gentle, subtle in movement as she mumbles an old hymn to a circle of tired youth. They are enthralled by her voice and mesmerized by the slight flow of her hands which she conducts herself with absentmindedly. He, too, finds himself trapped by the serenity his charge conveys and casts about a dimming room infected by sleep. "_When you close your earthly story, will you join them in their bliss?_" He counts them, one by one. Heads land on pillows and arms reach around to cocoon their bodies in woolen linen. By then, the lullaby had become practice - not the same one every night, but one of similar tone. The act had ingrained into his subconscious as well, bringing his body to respond in yawns and droopy eye-lids when she began each evening.

"_Will the circle be unbroken? By and by, by and by? Is a better home awaiting in the sky, in the sky?_" She never finishes the song - perhaps getting half-way through before all the children are off. To him, it's like never hearing the end of a story… Like starting a book and then moving onto another before witnessing the conclusion. Maddening, he thinks. He has so many songs stuck in his head that he cannot continue for lack of knowing how to do so. This starts to breed two feelings in Delta - bliss and dread. The bliss comes first, as described, but the dread forms when he counts the last head on the pillow and realizes that Eleanor would stop and he'd never know the song's final stanza. "_In the joyous days of childhood, oft they told of wondrous love. Pointed to the dying savior. Now they dwell with him above._"

They are always religious songs, he realizes. Are they all his daughter knows? Knowing what he does of Lamb's child-rearing philosophy, he doesn't doubt that for a moment. Lamb's obsession with faith confused him some, however. She seemed to tote herself as a higher power, controlling a flock and making her daughter out to be a savior of sorts. It didn't seem as though she followed a sect but rather drew inspiration from the text to weave a power fantasy where she was both mother Mary and God sending her only child out as a sacrifice "for the greater good." Part of him feels that such personal idolization is forbidden by said text, but he isn't sure why he thinks so. He can't recall ever reading the bible. It doesn't matter.

"_Will the circle be unbroken? By and by, by and by? Is a better home awaiting in the sky, in the sky_?" And there's the part that strikes him in this song. Each time she repeats the verse, he stops and thinks on things a tad too macabre. Maybe it's his constant reminders that his own mortality is staring him dead in the face, how he can barely lift his own hands anymore, how getting to his feet is becoming a two-person job, how he wakes up later and later into the day while going to sleep at around the same hour. He refuses to dwell on it for long. On the topic of what he believes it will be like, he can't comment - doesn't want to. He isn't sure he believes in anything beyond the waking world he's currently in. Would it ever be possible for the human brain to be entirely certain? Was there ever such a thing as certain? Doubt is ever present...

He realizes quite late that Eleanor has stopped singing and glances up with some effort. She stepped over the circle and sat against one of the beds, watching him from the looks of it. She jumps a little when she sees him move. Her expression speaks a question her tongue is too scared to voice. He answers with a quivering thumbs-up. She isn't at all reassured. He regrets that he can't give her a more earnest effort, though he knows she doesn't blame him… and he knows she's afraid. For lack of anything further to do, Delta allows his body to slump and wait to black out. He didn't dream. It was just a short interval of nothing before awaking the next day and he can't say he remembers ever dreaming. That doesn't mean he doesn't dream, of course, just that he doesn't recall his dreams. Sinclair woke him up once on the freighter, stating he'd been kicking in his rest and had slammed a metal heel into the poor older man's calf - his bad one, to boot. Guilt proper ate at him for that one the entire week.

Speaking of Sinclair, he's leaned against the inner sill of the window, staring blankly at the outside world with the dim glow of a street light giving his pale complexion a touch of life. Delta hasn't liked him as of late - not that Sinclair has done wrong in their time on the surface but more that he is worrying the protector with his coldness. His verbiage has even suffered, reducing itself to something bland and humorless. Had it been Porter's arrival? Or perhaps his exchange with that woman on the bay... When it started exactly, Delta can't recall. No matter the reason, Augustus isn't himself and it has ushered in a shocking drop to their morale.

Augustus's figure is fuzzy. Delta knows it's him based solely on the color. He'll add that to the list of complaints - not that he _could_ complain, of course, just that it was nice to pretend he could have that conversation. Eleanor is clearer, being closer, though is still a tad blurred in places. It is the small details that eludes his focus. As a matter of fact, it's starting to hurt his eyes. He opts to close them, returning to his previous task of trying to sleep. It doesn't take him long.

Eleanor relaxes when she sees his body go limp - or as limp as the suit allows. He reminds her of a doll in ways... Sat up against the bed with hands laid knuckle-down on the carpet and legs stretched out before his great, bowed head… Like the dolls the children made of their protectors. Actual toys of the Big Daddies existed, but little sisters weren't allowed them. Real toys had to be found or surrogates had to be made. Giving them playthings was a taboo, found to be a distraction similar to treating them like actual children. Glancing about the room at the sleeping lot she's gathered - all in one room tonight so Tenenbaum and Porter could rest unimpeded - she's glad she managed to save so many and so young. They all have chances of a real childhood with new dresses, real toys and loving families - all things she never knew she wanted until losing Delta the first time. Dwelling on it helps take her mind of more dire matters… Just for a moment.

"When did you sleep last?" She asks across the room. Augustus doesn't seem to enjoy being addressed, but at least answers.

"Twenty-four hours, probably. I'll be fine for another day, Sweetheart. Don't fret." His usual sultry nature is now deadpan - an attempt at his usual charm now an insult to it.

"We don't need to sleep in shifts. We're safe, Sinclair. Please get some rest. I'm sorry, but you look awful."

"I'm aware." He's being short, too.

"Why've you been sulking so much?" She stands and crosses to where he's exiled himself, earning a twitch in his brow that's perhaps him fighting off a scowl. She wouldn't be surprised. He shakes his head and wills his very droopy eyes to appear more awake but fails miserably. "You haven't been yourself. Everyone can see it. Father's been watching you like a hawk and I think it's worrying him."

"Just tired, honey. This whole thing's been a lot. We all can't be happy all the time, even without pressure from our current predicament. You can tell your daddy I'm sorry."

"Or you can tell him yourself."

"He doesn't look to be in a talkin' mood at the moment."

"You know what I mean. Besides, he likes talking to you."

"And how do you know that?"

Eleanor smiles warmly with a soft laugh. "How do you not? Whenever you talk, he turns all his attention towards you, never just listens while doing other things. Besides, you're closer to his age. It's good for him to interact with you so he can learn how someone like him should act in normal society." Sinclair grunts, showing the tiniest hint of a smile, though a pitiful one.

"I don't think your daddy should be takin' tips from me in that regard."

It then hits Eleanor. "Don't mind what Mister Porter Said, Sinclair. He's not the jury on this."

"He's right, though."

"Don't talk like that."

"Why not? It's facts, honey. I've done… terrible things... No, terrible doesn't begin to cover it. I'm... " His chest swells and face scrunches into a conflicted scowl. His Adam's apple bobs as though he's trying to swallow something especially bitter. He can't seem to finish the sentence, opting to slump defeated against the sil with only a sigh - his eyes are the signet of guilty men. Eleanor reaches out to him, hesitant at first but willing herself to complete the motion until her hand is rested lightly on the man's slumped shoulder.

"Who we were and… who we are… Don't have to be the same person…" If the words mean anything to Augustus he doesn't show it. "It's what we choose to do now that matters, Sinclair…" There remains only stillness from the man and Eleanor resigns. She crosses back to where Delta sleeps to find rest for herself, watching the man across the room up until the dark haze engulfs her and drags her out of reality. All the while she aches, not just in sympathy for Augustus for her father's worsening condition. The world around her is almost suffocating in its dread.

Sinclair watches the two of them in return just on the edge of his vision. The girl's words are both hopeful and sting like a nest of wasps. Perhaps to a petty thief the sentiment would be profound but a minor felon Augustus is not. There is a completely different court for men like him, he feels. Then, of course, there is the matter of Delta, a saint of tolerance and forgiveness, it appears - a heart of gold entrapped in a prison of cold, unmoving steel built by men. Like. Him. Hell should not be merciful. '_He shouldn't even like me, not in the slightest,_' he can't help but lament, going back over his memories of his interactions with the Alpha and realizing the truth in Eleanor's own observations. The big daddy did appear to have a vested interest in Sinclair's input. Hell, Sinclair enjoys his company in turn. Thinking it makes him feel sick... A different kind of sick. He looks back at Delta, turning fully to take in his slumped, dying body.

"Why couldn't I have just been a means to an end with you?"

…

_Watching the brute-ish form through the window became nerve-racking, especially ever since the idea festered in his head. 'Look a man in the eye,' he reminds himself. 'Without that extra layer of glass.' One layer he can't help, but one he can divorce form the situation with but a pull of a handle. It both makes sense and makes none at all, though he feels compelled to erase that barrier and speak to the creature just once, even through a false air of trust. Additionally, he wonders quite aggressively what communing with a protector might be like. 'Just walk it,' he tells himself as though speaking to a nervous teenage boy trying to confront his belle. 'If you make it out alive, you can at least say you spoke to one.' It's enough to force his hand down on the latch._

_The helm jerks a bit in surprise, form tensing and preparing for a fight but his muscles relax when he spies Sinclair waltzing through the doorway. Then, it becomes just curiocity seeming to keep the Big Daddy's porthole fixated on the smaller man. Augustus strides up until he is almost shoulder to shoulder with Subject Delta and smiles lopsidedly at the great, yellow pane of glass alloy. He fights to keep his hands out of his packets for fear that the thing will assume he has a weapon. Of course, he DOES, but he wouldn't want the Alpha to think he's planning to use it on it. _

"_Hope I'm not intruding, chief. Just thought I should come and see ya'. Think I'd be rude, otherwise." In response - surprisingly as Sinclair hadn't expected any reply - Subject Delta shakes its head, a full upper body affair to make sure the action is seen. The smaller man tries to hide his disbelief with another grin. "Glad you don't mind the company. Hope you don't mind my lookin', either. I hope you understand. You are a marvel, chief. I haven't seen any of your kind this close." It shakes its head again. Part of Sinclair is glad that it isn't as one-sided as he had anticipated. The other part is reeling back from how weirdly freaky actually having any back and forth with this thing feels. _

"_And you are quite the piece, I'd say. You work hard. I can admire that. Watching you deal with the degenerates around here is quite the show. Strong as an ox, stubborn as a mule… Now only if you were half as witty. Then you'd be a catch." He laughs, mostly at his own absurdity. He tosses a sympathetic expression at the big daddy's tilted head. "Oh, don't mind all that. I'm just chatty. Haven't had real company myself in quite a while. Tenenbaum stuck to the radio. It's different having someone in the room with ya', let alone a "charming" slab like yourself." In places where a nod or headshake can't fit as an answer, the creature opts for silence and a statue-esque stare which doesn't do much to help Augustus's nerves. He chooses to fill the silence himself so long as the Alpha shows no signs of annoyance. In that event, he decides he'll just excuse himself back to the rear car. _

_For a while, he just talks about nothing specific, commenting on some of the creature's weapons, the occasional deep-sea fish or rattling off a related anecdote, all the while watching for those little nods and head-shakes. To its credit, Subject Delta tries to engage as much as possible. It starts to give him an almost… sinking feeling. _

"_You know," he begins in a more hushed tone after a small stretch of silence - granted it's the longest silence they've had since he entered the car, but still... "Sometimes… I forget that there's… a man under there... That you aren't just that suit." Again, he laughs. He tries to blow it off as just a little comment and nothing more… Delta doesn't. In reply, the Alpha sticks out its right hand, a little forcefully. The action causes Sinclair to jump but he settles when the hand just sits in the air between them, palm up and fingers extended as though asking Augustus to take them. He looks up at Delta and takes notice when the big daddy flexes its bicep. The muscle bulges out even from beyond the mesh in a way that has Augustus swallowing hard. _

_Delta twitches its fingers to draw the smaller man's attention. When Sinclair readjusts his focus, he notices five small apertures upon Delta's fingertips that unlock and twist open, revealing the barest hint of something pale and smooth just below. Once more, the larger creature twitches its fingers… almost in a prompt. _

_Hesitantly, the Panamanian lifts his right hand, fingers splayed, and moves it towards the larger grasper. Inch by inch of thin air has Sinclair a tad concerned until his own finger-tips dip into the holes and graze over the almost white surface. It's soft, warm… Alive. It's skin, he realizes at a delay and he mentally hits himself for not knowing that to begin with. What did he expect? He leaves the ghost of a touch there for a moment before gradually withdrawing, watching as Delta drops its own hand back to its side. _

_Augustus smiles to himself. There is something intimate in the idea, he thinks… Of a big daddy allowing such a personal form of contact - and an idea that has Sinclair's chest twisting only a little. _

…

He's stuck to the window again. He's distancing himself from everyone else and part of Delta is hurt thinking of all the possible reasons why. As much as it tugs at his brain, the larger man can't afford the exhaustive effort to focus on it right now as two people are very much in his personal space and one of them is priming to undo the latches of his helm. It's a spritely man of an older age which Tenenbaum has dug up from the woodworks. He's almost bizarrely thin though presents the facial features of someone who once held a strong silhouette. His ginger hair is streaked with grey and thinning about the forehead which he's made more prominent by slicking the hair back and revealing his stark widow's peak. His eyes are rimmed with heavy bags which are tinted with an almost purple hue against the paleness of his flesh. The eyes themselves are bright and wide - much like an angler fish, he thinks. Finally, his nose is the most stark feature, placed square between both bowl eyes and hooked like a turtle's beak.

He is, by no exaggeration, an unattractive fellow but makes up for this fact with vibrant charm, a breed unlike Sinclair's usual wit. Where Augustus is suave and sultry, the Frenchman - Fabron by name - is light and cheery with an innocent sense of humor. It is certainly out of place with someone Tenenbaum says worked on the protector program. Maybe it's a front… Or maybe his time apart from Rapture has done him well. All Delta can do is hope for the best. Right now, the man is turning valve after valve with little resistance in an attempt to remove the protector's helmet. As much as Delta wants to stop this endeavor, he knows it's a necessity. '_It has to happen eventually,' _he thinks wryly. The last valve is released with a puff of compressed air before bony fingers slip under the edge and snag the latch. All the while, Delta watches Sinclair from the corner of his vision - watches him tense with each hiss and metallic groan like he's expecting to be struck.

He feels the rush of fresh air and it almost makes him sick. The moment the hem is lifted past eye-level, panic sinks in earnestly - more so when he sees a twitch of surprise slip past Tenenbaum's detached facade. The drop of the helmet rattles the carpet-coated floorboards. From his peripheral, Delta can see the other flinch. Fabron's own reaction is fairly sedated, looking far too focused to spare the brain power. He takes his thumb and forefinger to Delta's chin as means to turn his heavy head back and forth, his hooked nose not far from Delta's own, less dramatic one.

"Not quite what I was expecting," he hums as he sits back. "His color isn't great... There's bruising around his eyes and the oxy-tube ports at his neck here. See?" He runs a bony index over a spot on the left side of Delta's neck in demonstration for Brigid who holds her face in thought with a nod. "He obviously has some deficiencies, probably from a poor diet which poses issues for any operation. Just from a glance, I can tell he is specifically iron deficient... " Delta starts to drown it out. He doesn't much care for the medical jargon seeing as whatever may come of it is mostly out of his control. He stares at the wall behind Tenenbaum, maybe at a speck of something old mixed with the paint. Maybe it's wine… From a happy couple like the ones he'd seen at that new years party all those years ago... Dancing and laughing while throwing caution to the wind. One miss-placed twirl sends droplets fluttering onto anything in range - perhaps a passing waitor or another tipsy pair similarly lost in the incongruous festivities. It certainly isn't the only party he's ever witnessed but it's the one that sticks. Trauma is a funny thing.

If he survives this, could they throw a party? A small one? He's certain he wouldn't mind some light music, maybe a clumsy spin or two if enough of his faculties are salvaged. He doesn't see himself as much of a drinker, having tasted an array of liquor when he hadn't any other option to quench his thirst and he remembers not enjoying them much. Some were bitter, others horribly sour. One kind even burned as it seeped down his gullet. It surprised him upon first ingestion as the liquid was a honey brown. Further ventures into that territory were far more cautious.

Something cold presses against his temple and draws him out of his imagination. It's Tenenbaum's own hand, moving in to inspect something on his face; however, she doesn't address him - she merely moves his head to the side. Fabron Sighs. "Hmm... " The man struggles a tad to get to his feet and crosses the woolen expanse. "Might I have a look at you, Mister Sinclair?" The frenchman doesn't wait for an answer. He takes Augustus uncomfortably by the chin and moves his head about similarly to what had been done to Delta. The smaller "protector's" eyes give off the impression that he's inclined to bite the firm hand squeezing his unshaven cheeks. "Better color than Subject Delta but still pale for your lineage. Bruising but not too extensive… Comparatively, anyway."

The Panamanian firmly grabs Fabron's wrist and removes it from his face. "You shouldn't be worried about me right now. I could live the rest of my life in this suit if I had to."

"I am here to attend to the both of you and would like to know what I'm working with… Besides... " He pulls his hand free of the other's grip. "...I'm afraid Subject Delta wouldn't survive the procedure regardless." The quiet yet sharp intake Delta hears to his left just about breaks his heart. He's not sure if he can bare to look at Eleanor... Augustus had to have heard it because his brow perks at it and he gives Fabron a spiteful glare.

"Thanks for lettin' her down easy, chief." Unlike when he addresses Delta with that term, that 'chief' was spat with a subtle hint of malice which the Frenchman obviously catches.

"I'm sorry, Mister Sinclair, but I refuse to beat around the bush. His condition is dire and without a pairbond he's not going to make it. It's how Alphas were designed, a flaw of emerging technology."

"So that is it…?" Tenenbaum breathes, having moved over to Eleanor in an attempt to comfort the girl in her own, detached way. Finally turning his attention to his daughter, the protector sees the horrid glistening around her eyes.

"Well… Maybe not." Everyone in the room jerks about to look at the old man, a new light in his already solar eyes. "I have a story to tell that you all might be interested in." He walks to a spot between the group of three and Sinclair and begins to walk back and forth. Sinclair doesn't look directly at him and opts to merely keep the man in his peripheral. Delta wonders if it's because of him… "You see, some time after the first few Alphas were released into Rapture, not long before their retirement, one of them caught our attention. We called him Epsilon. This alpha was nothing extraordinary, but we heard reports that he was seen traveling with two little sisters. Once found, he put together what was happening. One of the little sisters was his own, but one was a child who had lost her protector and was being allowed to follow the pair and play with the first little sister. He didn't really pay her much attention, but allowing another around his charge was still unusual. We kept an eye on the trio for weeks until, sadly, the protector lost his charge via an accident with a collapsed flow pipe. Seeing an opportunity, three scientists on the program brought the Alpha and the second little sister in and attempted the bonding process. It failed."

"What is the point of this story?" Brigid hisses in annoyance, one arm around Eleanor.

"The point, my dearest Tenenbaum, is this: During the bonding process, scans were taken of pairs' brains. Before the child was rejected, there was a little spark... " He indicates a small size with his thumb and index finger. "A slight indication that the bond might actually take before it failed. It was written off as a malfunction, but I think otherwise. I think that it IS possible to re-bond an Alpha if the right conditions are met."

Eleanor almost leaps up, looking to Fabron with an intense new hope igniting her very being. "So, I could reconnect with father?" To that, the Frenchman cringes.

"I'm afraid, my dear, that one of the conditions is that it cannot be with the same vector that the Alpha lost its connection with. This was something we tested with intensely. The Alphas developed a defense mechanism we did not intend where any broken connections lead to the previous vector being considered a failed one and thus lock its signature out of the Alpha's mind. Weak links, or something along those lines. Mister Alexander had a good analogy for it, I just can't quite remember it. A master of the english language, that man - let me tell you -"

"What are the other conditions?" Sinclair interjects. He's still not looking entirely in their direction and sounds increasingly annoyed in spite of his best efforts. The Frenchman gapes his mouth in remembering his train of thought.

"Right! Right. Secondly, I believe that that spark, the one from the alpha and the second child, came about because the Alpha had inadvertently built a relationship with the second little sister. By allowing her to play with his own little one, he grew used to her and eventually came to care for her in some small way but the connection could not be concluded due to the Alpha's grief. It is known that one of the biggest flaws in the earliest big daddies were their emotional connection to their charges so his sadness over losing his child made him unable to accept another in time. I believe, if the coma and eventual sleeping death weren't factors, we could've established new bonds. With that, the other condition for this theory is that the chosen vector must have a pre-established bond to Delta, one that his brain has a positive, caring association with - like a parent and child. If he is already emotionally invested in the new vector, his brain might be more inclined to link. The stronger the bond, the better."

Fabron intertwines his fingers demonstratively. Everyone in the room stares at him, most unsure of what to say. It's Eleanor who speaks first with a meek tone. "Then… If it can't be me… who?"

The elder man shrugs and indicates towards the wall of the room. "There _is _a room full of young ones just over there." The outcry is violent. Angry barks and a few low growls drown out the ringing of the quiet room and leave Fabron shielding his face with his large, boney hands. "Well pardon me! It was merely a suggestion." That response elicited more anger, though a much more sedated sort.

"I did not fight to save so many children just to revert them back to that nightmare condition! There has to be another way," Tenenbaum almost hisses.

"That is the only theory I have, my dear. I apologize. Do we really have the time to argue this? Look at him, Brigid! He's not going to last much longer. I'm shocked he lasted more than a few days, let alone a week."

Delta shuts it out again… the second or third time, perhaps. He's starting to see the line between reality and his thoughts blur with the concept of his own demise and the potency of his exhaustion which bleeds into every mesh-guarded bone. He knew his stance on death… on how he felt about his own. What he hasn't considered is the aftermath. How many of the people in this room would mourn him? Really, truly mourn him... One, maybe two. He's too tired to be concerned… to keep his eyes open…

"What about me?" Delta jolts awake and looks to see Sinclair pointedly-eyeing Fabron in questioning. The other three stare back at him, Bridig and the Frenchman both mid-sentence, mouths agape.

"What?" they both cough in near unison.

"What. About. Me?" Augustus repeats more forcefully.

"You? That couldn't…" The Frenchman pauses, finger pointed and mouth open in an 'ah-ha!' "...Actually… You know what? If we're going off of theory, why not try it?" He throws his hands up in exasperation. "You don't want to use the little ones again, why not try an older man and one in horrible shape, if I recall-"

Sinclair puts up a hand to silence him, brow furrowed. "Just… Could it work?"

"Could it work? This entire solution is theoretical! Almost anything could work in theory!"

"Good. Then try it."

Tenenbaum stands up and takes Sinclair by his shoulders. She stares him directly in the eyes and Delta wishes he could see the look she's giving him because whatever it is drags Sinclair's own expression into one of caution."Augustus… In addition to this type of bond never being tested between a protector and an adult, If we try this… And the incident Fabron speaks of happened to really just be a glitch in the machine, you could die along with Delta. We'd lose both of you after he tried so hard to get you out of Rapture." The older man pulls back, the caution replaced by something between determination and indignation.

"He wasn't trying to get me out of Rapture. He was there to save Eleanor and she's perfectly safe. He didn't have to save me and he shouldn't have, but here I am. So, If there were any rhyme or reason to the universe, this is why. If not, call it me practicing my autonomy. I'm alive because of him and I'm gonna pay it forward. I have always paid my debts. Always."

Just outside of Delta's vision, they seem to have a silent conversation, one with eyes and nothing more. Sinclair's never move from Tenenbaum's face, though they roam about her many features. The woman takes a step back and slides her hands from the older man's forearms with an almost inaudible sigh. "Okay… we will try it."

"We will?" Fabron bawks. '

She doesn't even turn to face him… her voice is ghostly. "Yes. We will."

…

He anticipated her finding a way to get him alone. He remembers the look on her face so vividly it might as well have been carved into his skull. Sinclair had excused himself to the back patio of the hotel long after the area was supposed to be closed. He thinks it's some combination of carelessness and caution in relation to his appearance. If the mirror was any indication, he looked like the walking dead. At any rate, Tenenbaum waltzes out into the breeze, lit-cigarette in hand - the smoke from which is being blown into his face by the rather unfavorable breeze.

"How are you feeling?" She asks, most-likely as an in rather than her showing actual care. He knows he shouldn't answer as it'll subject him to an earful.

"Sick, ugly, worried… Not scared, if that's what you were wonderin'."

"I didn't expect you to be." She sits down across from him. "This will delay the suit removal by a few weeks at best… Depends on Delta's recovery rate. And yours, of course, though his condition is of more concern at the moment."

"Hm."

"Sinclair… This will not relieve you of your sins." And there it is. He hasn't the energy to put up with an interrogation and so he stands and goes to head back to the room. Tenenbaum says nothing… does nothing. She simply sits in a rusty, metal chair and watches the smoke drift on through waves and waves of gentle air with each deep breath.


	6. Chapter 6: All That Is Real

_Pristine hardwood and elegant red fabrics blend seamlessly across a packed ballroom. Overhead, gaudy art pieces act as chandeliers with figures of strong men holding electric torches. None of it is his style, personally; however, he's too buzzed to care anymore. He'll get used to it. He'll have to. Somewhere across the way, he can see Andrew Ryan entertaining with broad gestures and a steel smile - some among him being a slight-figured man with an eccentric presentation and a few more average gents sprinkled in with the crowd of admiring belles. _

_As for himself, Sinclair finds he's searching for something a tad more interesting, perhaps divorced from his usual takes. There are a few meeker-looking women occupying the corners and booths - lovely for the most part but will likely require too much hand-holding or perhaps see subtext where there is none. The livelier ladies were either married or far too easy. He isn't sure what he expected considering Ryan's criteria for recruitment. 'You didn't come here for the nightlife, Augustus,' he has to remind himself with a puff of air over his nearly empty glass. _

_The night winds down eventually with the band playing more allay offerings composed of mostly strings with subtle horns while the drinking hasn't slowed down hardly at all to the point where the waitstaff were looking just about as worn out as the half-dead patrons they are serving. Ryan and his troupe had departed long ago. Augustus? He's taken to a booth at the far end of the dimly-lit hall, not having had much in the way of spirits himself though he wants to knock himself out. Disappointed is a generous way of conveying his thoughts of the night. Mayhaps Ryan had misjudged Sinclair's likeness with his kind of people._

_The former lawyer downs only his second glass of mild bourbon while scanning the room. Maybe he could distill his own brand of spirits later on after everyone's found their footing - anything to keep him and the other poor residents of Rapture from sipping the same flowery sap for the rest of their stay. Truth be told, it doesn't seem like anyone in the room currently cares about the quality or "bite" of their liquor as two things usually prevent such discretion: excitement or lack of options. Here, it's a mix of both. He slips one of the ice cubes into his mouth and sucks on it. _

_Then his eyes spy something quite in contrast to the rest of the swaying rabble: a larger fellow of fair skin and tall stature. His form is filled out by lean muscle that looks out of place trapped in a crisp, clean suit - a body such as his seeming more at home in the attire of a lumberjack. A pair of gunmetal eyes turn from the bartender and lock onto him as though they sense Sinclair's very soul. They're sober eyes. Augustus averts his gaze back to his empty class and he bites down on the now mostly-melted cube, going in to down the second one in the same fashion - all the while he's hoping the burning in his face can be written off as the same brand of intoxication plaguing the rest of the guests. _

_His concentration on his task causes him to jump when a new glass is placed in front of him, another across from him as the goliath sits himself down adjacent. "Hello," he manages to cough over chips of gnawed ice. The other chuckles. _

"_Sorry. You've been nursin' that poison by yourself all night so I thought I'd like to chat with someone more coherent." Southern… Maybe someone near his neck of the woods. Sinclair extends a hand across the table which is taken in an almost all-consuming grip. _

"_Augustus Sinclair." _

"_Wayne Deschamps." He releases but leaves something of a ghost over Sinclair's comparably tiny palm. "I work security. You?" _

"_Business owner, investor. Lookin' to get my foot in where I can. Used to be a lawyer and we all know how soul-suckin' that line 'a work can be." Wayne laughs a tad more heartily than the usual joe would at such a statement. A background in law, then? _

"_My daddy was one a' them for his entire life. Criminal defense was his specialty and he hated every second of it. There were times when he'd come home and gripe at my mama about how he'd just gotten the most guilty sop off the hook with a slap on the wrist for murder or assault or things even worse. Went to his grave a bitter old bastard." Right on the money. Wayne is smiling and it allows Sinclair a turn to laugh._

"_I stuck myself to property disputes and wills. Not a fan of criminal trials. They're all a circus. Necessary, of course, but the system can be a cruel mistress. Enough about that, though. What special little claim to fame put you on Andrew Ryan's radar?" _

"_I wasn't invited by Ryan, actually. I was brought here by request of his chief of security. Got himself a bunch of us without wives or kids or other serious ties to the surface. Me, I never married and both my parents were put to rest when I was still in school, my grandparents not long after I graduated. Seems I was the perfect fit." _

"_Sure does... " Augustus keeps a neutral expression but his thoughts are moving a mile a minute. With a suave smile and slight narrowing of his eyes, he decides to probe. "...But a gent like you never gettin' married? I'd say you could have your pick." The smile threatens to widen far too much when he catches a glimpse of discomfort in the man's posture. _

"_Well, I... It just… Never worked out, ya' know? Always been too busy with workin' to keep a girl around. What about you?" _

"_Me? My __**interests**_ _are a tad too unusual for marriage." Wayne looks like he's about to voice a question before his eyes widen and his mouth finds itself welded shut. He stares for a few seconds before his own eyes narrow and he presses against the table by his elbows. Under the inquisitive eyes, Sinclair merely sips his new drink with a sultry smile. _

"_What kind of interests?" _

_He swallows slowly, clearing the remnants off his lips with a quick flick of a silver tongue. "Ones that align with yours, I'm hopin'." He's being far more forward than he'd usually be but he's far too impatient tonight and Wayne is the sort of specimen that doesn't drop by very often - terrible at hiding it, handsome and charming… among other traits. The man seems hesitant at first. He reels back in his seat with maybe a denial on his lips. He looks down at his untouched glass before returning those gunmetal orbs to Sinclair's hazel. On the doubletake, Augustus knows he's won. _

"_Maybe we can… talk about it in private? I know people ain't too comfortable with the __**unusual**__." _He thinks he's being clever… Maybe he is in his own cute little way. With the third glass of bourbon, it's the most alluring thing in the world.

_With the third glass of bourbon, he forgets anyone is watching._

…

To set up a twin pair of surgeries in one day has Augustus's head spinning. Favors are called, locations are arranged, equipment that doesn't have to be made is rented. The initial preparations are finished before midnight and he feels apt to puke. Everyone made sure to stress the fragility of Delta's condition and that seemed to fuel the forest fire better than a downed airplane - if the thought of operating on a big daddy didn't do that already. When it came to some of the figures the appeared within the two days following, Sinclair could see some who hadn't a fleeting fret over the survival of either man, but simply sought a paycheck or some sort of satisfaction from being so much as touch a protector when they were denied such a "privilege" in Rapture.

Yes, some were also former Rapture residents that fled any way they could when shit hit the fan. He wasn't shocked that so many somehow got out with Ryan's focus on the splicer problem and Fontaine in the later days. The "No one leaves" law became more of a suggestion to the especially privileged - himself sadly excluded. Either way, it accumulated to the older man sitting under the jeweled sky with hands shaking like a ratty motor. In spite of what he'd said to Tenenbaum some nights ago, he was scared - absolutely terrified. Surgery is surgery, but this isn't that. This is theory and experimentation. Is he really about to risk his life over this?

Some parts of him scream that he'd been too hasty, too emotional. What good would this even do? Maybe Fabron was right and Augustus is a poor choice. Then, of course, there's the fact that - by way of guilt - he can't back out. He wouldn't, but he feels like he hasn't a choice in the matter and that's what bothers him. The night he'd made the demand, Eleanor had hugged him… actually hugged him. Through misty eyes, she told the man who ruined her father's life in the first place "thank you." Upon hearing those words, every fiber of his being tightened with a sense of wrong. Her embrace felt wrong, her gratitude felt wrong, the warmth in her eyes was wrong…

He hadn't seen Delta's face. He'd never say it, but he's thankful. As much as he knows the suit and helm need to be abandoned, he's not sure he'll ever be ready to see it. He'd felt it - granted, through a buffer - and there were ridges of scar tissue reaching up to meet his hand and to remind him of his role. He remembers the pale, inhumanly smooth skin seen briefly through brass-colored apertures and swears he still senses the ghost touch sending waves through his captured body. That's not what scares him most, however...

"Why aren't you asleep?" It's a voice he hasn't heard much of, especially directed at him. He turns and sees Porter stood statuesquely in the doorframe. If not for the protector suit, he'd be taller than Sinclair by a good few inches. The man's physical prowess isn't something the Panamanian needs to look at him to know for his black eye is a firm enough assurance that said strength is very real. The man is short with him, cold. He shows no concern and Sinclair suspects he's asking for someone else.

Augustus responds in kind. "Don't feel like it yet." Charles takes two steps onto the small balcony and uncomfortably places himself to the "protector's" right. He leans against the railing far enough to catch the other man's eyes.

"It doesn't matter what you feel like. This isn't about you."

"Forgive me for not wanting to keep him up with my tossin' and turnin,'' he sighs, jerking his head towards the room where the two beds have been pushed together to make a comfortable space for Delta to sleep. It was intended for Sinclair as well. He's not keen on taking his spot on it just yet. Even the children were piled into the second room just so the two alphas can get one peaceful night before the operation. "He needs at least an hour of sound sleep if I can help it. He hasn't had much. As weak as he is, most of his sleep's been from passin' out and I doubt that's very restful."

Porter turns his head towards the dim street not too far below and seems to focus on nothing. "I'm curious about this sudden burst of altruism. I know where it's coming from but I want to hear what reason you've conned yourself into believing if you'll enlighten me." Augustus, too, stares off at a void born in his mind. He's unable to visualize a thing at the moment, as grounded in reality as he is by Porter's presence. He's aware enough to retort in a similar breed of venom, though.

"I'm not in much of an enlightenin' mood, chief. Sorry." The nickname slips out the same way as it had when he'd used it on Doctor Fabron. "Even if I was, I'm not about to let another person play armchair psychologist with me, tellin' me what kinda damage lead to the way I scratch my nose."

"I'd say you're the person who does the damage rather than the one damaged. I don't even think you realize when you're hurting people. Your so-called "friend" back there has been without his helmet for two days and you've refused to even spit in his direction."

"I don't look because I don't wanna hurt him."

"Not looking **is **hurting him. You're just trying to spare yourself."

Sinclair turns to stare at Porter directly, something mirrored though with much less emotion. "And what if I look at him and can't stop myself from makin' a face? What if I can't think 'a anythin' nice to say? Won't that hurt, too? My mind is all sorts of mixed up and I don't know what I'll be able to control and what I won't." Charles appraises the man before him for a moment through squinted eyes. It's a pointed, scrutinizing glare like a clerk at a pawn shop trying to decipher a suspicious ring's value. When he speaks, his voice is laced with warning.

"Remember what you were told about this procedure. If you want him to survive, you better make your peace. If there's doubt in his mind and it causes this whole thing to fail, it's on your head." Charles silently ducks from the balcony and slips out of the room, no doubt to head over to his own a few floors up. "Go to sleep" is said dryly in passing. Sinclair isn't long behind him, though he doesn't leave the room. He locks the door back and heads back over to the bed where Delta lays in what some might see as sound sleep, though the older man knows differently. Delta never sleeps this silently.

Through the din, he can't make out details but can see a swollen brow and crooked nose outlined in creeping moonlight via the window on the other side of the room. It's sedated when it reaches Delta's body. The older man rolls his jaw in thought. Once more, he recalls a train car miles below the ocean where he first touched ghostly, velvety flesh… And then on a shipping freighter where his own gloved hand had been fed under the hem of Delta's helm and guided along scars and divets. He'd said something to him, then… He can't recall what it was.

A tad reluctant, the Panamanian moves himself onto the opposite half, staring at the back of a pale, scarred head that moves only slightly with the deep, shaking breaths escaping his sickly carcass. He wants to roll over the other way, feign sleep until either morning or dreams manifest... Instead, he moves closer to the other... He slips one arm under a limp elbow and presses his forehead against Delta's shoulder blades in an awkward, loose hug. He screws his eyes shut when he feels the flinch.

Somewhere in the back of his mind he forces himself to quell thoughts of a less pure nature regarding the last time he was this close to another person in bed - oftentimes drunk and always with someone he couldn't care less to keep around. Prior to the pairbond idea, keeping Delta in his life had been up in the air. Now, it is going to have to be a necessity. In that way, Porter is right… Without even realizing it, he's been sabotaging Delta's chances of survival. The Panamanian lightly grinds his face deeper into the back of the younger man's suit. He draws a slight breath.

"Hey, big hoss…" He attempts to say with a more cheery tone. It comes out full of cracks. "I haven't… been actin' right lately... I know. I didn't mean to bother you with all my baggage. You don't need all that extra weight and I just went and lumped it all onto you. Didn't even realize…" He can't finish it. It's only two words and they are caught in his throat like he's regurgitating nails. No matter how hard he gags and stammers, they won't dislodge and he resigns himself to tightening his hold. If Delta knows what he is trying to say, he gives no indication. The pale face looks ever onward and the breathing keeps the same, horrible tempo against Augustus's strange embrace, distanced by the thick fibers of the suits.

Even if he could say those two words, though… They wouldn't help anything... They're just… words... Pointless words and yet so heavy that saying them seems impossible. They're anchored to the pit of his stomach with all the bile building with each passing second of muteness. Sinclair's eyes start to sting, hands start to shake, body starts to quiver under the raking hands of dread. The panic inside him builds like a tsunami, first with the fleeing tide as though collecting momentum.

But it stops.

All at once, the panic halts as his hands - wrapped firmly about Delta's torso - are joined by another pair of equal unease. An open, gentle palm encompasses the back of Augustus's right hand. It strokes it tentatively before taking it and holding on with barely any hint of force. The younger Alpha's thumb traces the knuckle of the other's index finger through small, incredibly controlled circles on the metal plate. It's almost loving. Even if the touch isn't skin to skin - or even glove to skin - the very concept of earning such placid attention shoots static from the point of contact on a steady course to every corner of his body. Warm… pleasant... Maybe a little frustrating.

Sinclair lets Delta do this for some time - maybe an hour - before the younger man seems to start to drift. It's at this point that Augustus knows he's allowed himself to be trapped, held in place by a desire to leave the younger man's rest undisturbed. Though he knows he'll have a few numb appendages when he wakes, he doesn't try to fight it. He presses further into the mesh prison and breathes a sigh of inner defeat. It's not as reluctant as he imagines. Even after Delta stops the idle stroking, he still feels that bubbling heat running up his arms and pooling in his chest. It webs off into his face, over his nose, cheeks and ears - growing more intense with each expanding breath the larger man takes.

Augustus has never held this much contact with the other. He's never been sure such things were allowed in spite of Delta's own inclination towards physical displays - using his hands to indicate what he wants in place of words, oftentimes touching or inviting others to touch. He's been very demonstrative where language has failed him and still Sinclair has only now gotten to be so close. Sleeping back-to-back on the freighter was one thing, but this…? He almost tries to yank his arms free when he realizes what the word for his actions is; however, even the slightest movement causes the larger man to stir and Augustus to cringe.

This isn't okay. This is a mistake. It's nothing and a massive problem at the same time. It's warm and pleasant and not at all unfamiliar and yet he can't stand it. It's all a massive contradiction. He wants to fall asleep to the sound of Delta's breathing against his ear and he wants to pull away and lay as close to the other side as he can possibly get. It's not Delta himself, it's what Delta is, he knows. It's that visceral reaction every man was supposed to have.

"_This isn't that,_" he tells himself, hands starting to tremble. "_I'm not going back to that. That wasn't real._" Is that a lie? This warmth about Delta isn't a new experience. "_You're tired, probably sick… Just go to sleep. You need sleep._" He **is **tired, emotionally exhausted to boot. It's a perfect storm that has him practically fainting while still holding tightly to Delta's torso in the early hours of this already terrible morning. He swears he even feels the touch in his dreams.

…

_They are steely eyes… cold as murder. They are eyes all of Rapture knows no matter if they know the man's name or face. They all know those eyes - those of Ryan's most diligent compatriot, one of his most loyal spies. Those eyes tear into him from the lobby of his own hotel and it takes every ounce of his strength not to turn and run like a bat out of hell as soon as Sullivan starts his way. Instead, Sinclair stands still and waits for the man with arms limply set in his own pockets. _

"_Your office, if you please." His voice is coarse with annoyance, even when attempting courtesy - still, Augustus walks shoulder-to-shoulder with Sullivan, his own face relaxed and voice as light as ever when agreeing. The officer almost jostles Sinclair in first before roughly jerking the door shut behind them both. There's hardly a second to breathe before Sullivan is snarling at the Panamanian. _

"_How long have you known Deschamps?"_

"_Pardon? Run it by me again, sir, I don't speak bloodhound." _

"_Cut the sly bullshit, Sinclair. Wayne Deschamps - one of my enforcers. I knew you were a different kind of degenerate, Sinclair, but this? Guess you're the case study on not judging a book by its cover. Suave Don Juan my ass." _

"_Holy hell, that was a lot. Release enough tension with that to finally explain to me what the issue is?" _

"_The issue," Sullivan takes a step for every word he speaks until Sinclair is backed against his desk. The former lawyer is forced to sit just to create some distance between their faces. "...Is that you've been in bed with one of my men for years." _

_Deny. Deny. Deny._

"_One of your __**men**__? And who in their infinite insanity gave you that idea?" _

'_Don't emote too much. If you emote too much, you'll give it away. Balance it. Keep the top spinning.' _

"_Half of Rapture, to start! I didn't want to believe it. I kept hearing stories about you pulling him away from events and him not being seen for hours. I didn't want to believe it. Deschamps was a good kid. I trusted him. Then I saw it for myself. At Cohen's show last night, I saw you take off with one another at intermission. He was on the clock and you pulled him away from his job!" _

'_**Was **__a good kid?'_

_Sinclair masks his voice's intense need to shake. "Excuse me, Mister Sullivan. I wasn't aware I was creating an issue. He never made any indication of it. Also, no. I have not been in bed with him. We met at a party years ago and have kept a decent friendship. He and I simply share a great many opinions on Rapture's upper echelon that make us less interested in staying for gaudy stage plays and over indulgent soirees. Not all of us are keen on watching people lick Ryan's boots." _

_The steely eyes grow even more focused. Sullivan leans in with a squint and an even lower tone that could have been a cousin to a hiss. "You can't lie your way out of this, Sinclair. He told us everything."_

"_Did he, now?" On the surface he's uninterested and jaded towards what most would assume is juvenile accusations. Below his thick skin, however, he's screaming. _

"_An enforcer running off with one of the big names in Rapture is suspect. Ryan wanted me to investigate. You walk a thin line with him as it is. When we got a hold of Wayne, he was all too willing to spill his guts. Better to be known as a flit than a traitor."_

_He's in a corner... If he denies again, he risks admitting to a mutiny that doesn't exist… If he comes clean, he loses himself to something far worse than death in Rapture... In response, he stares. Only stares. _

"_Where's your wit, Sinclair? All the swooning people do over that silver tongue… Not even knowing what you do with it." _

_Augustus, leans forward less than an inch, nose almost touching Sullivans to the larger man's near outburst of disgust. The smaller man's voice is laced with venom. "Ask any whore down in the alley and she'll tell you full well what I do with my tongue." _

_Ryan's attack dog bites back. "I didn't need to run to the alley to find your whore."_

"_So you say. Do you have any evidence aside from a captured man afraid for his life willing to tell you anything to save it?" _

"_What would he have to hide, Sinclair? If it wasn't being in bed with you, then what was it?" That's the game, then. Sinclair's personal antics obviously bother Sullivan, but not as much as the threat of competition towards Andrew. Trial by shame - forcing him to admit one fault to lower his standing as a means to save his literal skin... He is fucked no matter what he chooses to confess to._

"_You're the one who marched into my office making accusations. You tell me."_

"_You're incriminating yourself."_

"_I own the prison."_

"_Ryan owns the city."_

"_Does he? You and I both know his power in Rapture is waning. I'm not gonna pretend like I'm interested in rising to claim it, but other people are sure pining for the position. Forgive me if the threat of incurring Ryan's wrath isn't what it used to be." _

_The barest hint of a twitch rings alarm bells in Sullivan's eyes. He stands up straight and takes one step back. "You have 'till monday to make a statement, Sinclair. Pick your sword."_

"_What happened to Deschamps?" He catches Sullivan with his hand on the door knob. The larger man snorts without even turning around. _

"_You know damn well."_

_..._

As he had expected, Augustus awakens with one arm asleep and the other still holding a death-grip on Delta's hip. He manages to wriggle the numb appendage out from under himself and cradle it between both of their bodies until blood flow returns. It takes far longer than he'd like, but he can eventually wriggle his fingers through the intense pin-pricks roaming the entire length of it from hand to shoulder. As for his other arm, he can't find the strength to move it. Physically, he possesses the ability, of course, but in other terms he doesn't feel stable enough to release the larger man just yet. The same warmth that had plagued his increasingly negative thoughts just hours before now serves as an item of comfort.

Sinclair listens to Delta's labored breathing… Something inside Delta's chest cavity vibrates... It sounds like sucking little drops of water through a straw. All he can see past the deeply-rising shoulders is a pale, buzzed-bald skull that only moves marginally when the straw takes in a lungful. Maybe it's mucus? He thinks he remembers reading something that said living in a damp environment isn't good for the lungs so the idea doesn't surprise him - though he isn't sure how Delta's helm plays into that theory. He can take it off, but did he ever do so frequently enough to bring on such a side effect?

Delta rolls over a little more, sliding out of Sinclair's grasp to lay on his stomach. His face still aims away, but presses into the pillow. From a glance, Augustus thinks the protector looks so entirely at peace - maybe for the first time that either of them can remember. It's a relief. The action is just the motivation the older man needs to slide off the bed and slink away to the other side of the room where some gathered supplies have been neatly organized - not by him, of course. He sits partially cross-legged on the carpet and pokes around to find something light. He was told not to eat anything the night before or that morning since the surgery was scheduled to happen considerably early, but Augustus grunts to himself and chooses to hang the consequences over his shaking hands and twisting, empty gut.

He goes to reach for a box of some salted crackers… Then he hears a groan. His hand freezes mid-reach, finger-tips ghosting over the cardboard… another moan... He turns partially, looking at the unfocused shape of the other man over his shoulder. "You alright, big hoss?" he asks softly without knowing if the other man is even awake. Delta responds in kind with a low, vibrating sound that Sinclair can't describe as anything other than needy. He doesn't even have to look to know what the larger alpha wants. "Won't be coming back to bed, big fella. We're gonna have to be awake in not too long so I might as well already be up and about. You aching for anything? I know they said we shouldn't eat before the operation, but I think just a little snack shouldn't make much of a difference. I get bad low blood sugar anyway."

There's a more positive-sounding noise from behind the older man accompanied by a cacophony of groans, creaks and grunts. Two thuds shake the floor, then two more as Delta manages to sit himself partially behind and partially next to Sinclair. He must have slept well if he has the energy for that. Augustus was about to offer him one of the crackers when two arms slowly but firmly wrap themselves around his torso, followed by a lumpy face being buried in the meat of his armored shoulder. A shiver rolls up his spine.

"Aheh… Good morning to you, too, chief. That's, uh… That's real sweet." The warmth comes back with a vengeance. He clears his throat when Delta's yawn sends waves of goose-bump-raising breath over the back of his neck - far too pleasant for what it is. "Here," he says, sticking a cracker over his shoulder. Delta takes it between index and thumb, eating it with all the grace of a bulldog to Sinclair's amusement. Just hearing the mess such a tactless man is making is enough to stretch his lips into a gentle smile.

"_Not looking __**is **__hurting him. You're just trying to spare yourself." _

It drops like a sack of bricks. He hates admitting it - he really does - but Porter was right, is right… is always right. Delta is right there, bare face sitting on his shoulder in a hug far more affectionate than anything Augustus could ever deserve and all he has to do is look, is turn his head just a few degrees. Maybe what he's been telling Delta to do for weeks is advice he needed to take himself - rip off the bandaid… It can't possibly be that bad… If everything goes well today, it's a face he has to live with for the rest of his life either way…

Rip off the bandaid. It can't possibly be that bad.

Delta's hands begin to slide away and Augustus catches them. He holds Delta in place while he sucks in a deep breath and holds it. The larger man doesn't fight it. Rather, he sits there with twitching hands, quite possibly confused or concerned - maybe both… or maybe hopeful. Maybe Delta has been wanting this so desperately that he anticipates any leeway he makes to be this moment... It's far too romantic a notion to be anywhere near plausible, Augustus knows - the product of a fruity novel he might have picked up in passing many years ago. No, Delta is confused, most assuredly... He thinks the term "fruity," he realizes. All things considered, was fruity really bad?

Rip off the bandaid. It can't possibly be that bad.

He's stalling. '_Stop stalling, then._' Easier said than done but still doable. He isn't making the moment any less awkward with how long he's been gripping the larger man's wrist. His thumb softly traces the metal plate - What looks like a simple triangle etched into the brass… No matter what that face looks like, that symbol - that name - will never change. He's still Delta.

Rip off the bandaid...

A pull far too gentle is all it takes to bring the goliath of a man back into Sinclair's space. It can't possibly be that bad. He does it quick, turning his head to face the one practically on top of his right shoulder and finds his hazel eyes locked firmly in place by a pair of sea-green ones - wide and shocked beyond reason... One is marred by a swollen brow - his right. It seems the right side of his face is the one most affected… When he finally manages to break his gaze from those increasingly-bright orbs, he wanders over the troubled expanse with what he hopes is a neutral expression. Delta's jawline is jagged. The strong, straight line of it is interrupted by a divet about an inch deep and encompassed by scar tissue somehow lighter than the snow-hue of the rest.

On impulse, Augustus reaches up and taps his index finger on the missing chunk to no real reaction - like Delta doesn't mind the scrutiny, like he's expecting it. The response is encouraging. His hand turns palm-up and cradles the larger man's chin which has an x-shaped mark under the curve of it. Delta's lips are a surprise. Yes, they are chapped and bruised but also plump. Charming lips, Sinclair decides, feeling the redness consume his own face once again. He sweeps his thumb over them, wishes he could discern their texture on his bare skin. The scar tissue from the "cut" in the alpha's jaw extends in a slash to the corner of his mouth which makes that side twitch - nerve-damage, maybe. The slash looks like it had once been deep.

Augustus wanders, then, to the larger man's nose. It's hooked - not like Fabron's. It's far less dramatic than that. No, this nose was once beautifully angled - strong like the rest of his features behind the damage. It's crooked towards the brow and one of his nostrils has another slash through it, though small. The bruising and discoloration is everywhere. He'd heard Fabron mention it, but its extent is almost staggering. Some of it is from long-healed burns, some from more recent lacerations and blunt impacts. The rest is from nutrient deficit like the darkening of his eye-sockets. In a strange way, the shading accentuates the color of his irises.

As he comes back to those eyes, he knows he remembers them. He remembers a handsome young man with charming stubble and tanned skin… with feathery ginger hair… In its place, Delta is shaved bald, showing no sign of having his locks returned. Even his brows are void of it. Handsome still? Augustus won't say so. He won't lie… But when those chapped, quivering lips upturn into a nervous but earnest grin - surprisingly-white teeth and all - Sinclair can't help but return the expression with even more enthusiasm. Not handsome, but charming… Always charming.

And now, the first real expression on the smaller man's face is a smile. His first reaction is a smile. It causes Delta's own to widen into a radiant beam, one that has them both chuckling - Sinclair's hearty and Delta's the usual hissing. "My, my…" he breathes, still grinning ear to ear. It's not that bad. Bad, of course, but not in the way he'd been expecting.

All at once, it'll like a massive weight has been lifted off of Delta. He practically flops onto his side at Sinclair's hip, laying on folded arms and looking over his forearms with what almost seems to be bliss. He's been dreading it for longer than Augustus... Stressing... worrying... Wondering in agony... Augustus **has** been selfish. Where words fail, he simply prolongs the contact, running his thumb over the lower lip and chin. Touch - a language Delta has always understood, been able to convey.

In this moment, it doesn't even matter that all of his sins are staring Augustus right in the face.

Delta is frozen in place, grin becoming softer and a little amused at Sinclair's fascination. The patience of a saint… The face of a beast most feared and protector most adored. The face of a father - biological or otherwise. It's Delta's face. Sinclair says it a few times in his head before it really sinks in. This is Delta's face. This is the face of the man who spared his life against his wishes, the man who risked life and limb to find his daughter and get her and dozens of little girls out of the hell that was Rapture. This is the face of the man who made it through Fontaine's plasmid trials, though imprisonment at Persephone, through life in Rapture under Ryan's suspicions… through the ocean floor to find the city to begin with. No matter the drastic changes it has been through, this is the face of Subject Delta, Johnny Topside, whatever name he had before that he refused to share.

Sinclair follows Delta down, falling onto his back and stretching out his lame leg with a sigh of satisfaction. Delta's head is near his feet. Augustus's hunger is entirely forgotten. It's good silence that stretches on, now. Silence of sleep and of relaxation - lack of words for the reason of not needing to say anything instead of having nothing to say. They don't even move when the door unlocks and Eleanor steps inside. She says only two words when she finds them sprawled on the floor.

"It's time."

…

They don't go to a hospital for it. That makes him nervous… Well, more nervous than he already is along with the fact that the 'doctors' are no longer licenced and the equipment is old and rented when it isn't home-made. Yes, they've all done the procedure a hundred times before, just not under these circumstances with these parameters and not with only a theory as a guide. Too many variables. He refuses to object.

What has him more curious, though, is that he and Delta are in the same room, only kept apart by a dividing sheet as two surgeons take to them at the same time. He wants to ask, tries to, but is drowned out by more pressing issues. Before he knows it, he's strapped into more monitors than he even knew existed and being injected with god only knows what. One of said substances has to be the anesthetic… maybe something that numbs… He can't recall much from the time aside from one thing: Eleanor.

Before he completely loses himself to the fuzzy, black void of unconsciousness, Eleanor crosses the thin barrier between her father and him. She leans over him and makes sure to catch his eyes. She makes sure she's heard, that she's understood.

"Sinclair, listen to me. Focus for one moment." She snaps her fingers inches from his nose. He complies as best he can. "No matter what you see, what you hear, you need to remember one thing, okay? None of it is real. Not the sights, the smells, not even the pain. None of it…" She pauses to make her point as clear as daylight. "...Except for him. All that is real is him. Do you understand?"

He doesn't. In fact, he is even more confused than when they started. He doesn't remember voicing that thought, but Eleanor answers anyway.

"You will." It's the last thing he hears.


	7. Chapter 7: Everything Wrong with Me

Every voice he's ever heard is speaking to him all at once. He can't tell what they're saying… Gibberish… Mumbling. He tries to cover his ears but he can't get his hands to move, like they're chained to his sides. He sits paralized in a void of noise. He can't even add his own to the ruckus as his throat constricts every time he goes to force a sound. It's like he's underwater… no air, no light in the abyss.

Then he stops being able to breathe.

A pressure on his chest forces all the air from his lungs in bursts, forcing him to try and grasp his hands for any semblance of self-control. Then he takes a breath. It's deep, shaking and forced in too quickly, making him cough. At the same moment, he's finally able to move his arms and make the voices go away - though through what force he isn't aware. His vision is the last to return to him. He's lying on the floor of a massive structure, ceilings easily stories high and space almost impossibly dark if not for a tint of blue light coming from somewhere to Sinclair's left. He hears water… lightly lapping against something… A fountain, maybe?

Sinclair braces his hands on the floor as he goes to pick himself up but freezes once again. The floor is tile… and he knows that because he can actually **feel **it. He feels it on his fingertips, his palms, his forearms revealed from beyond a rolled-up pair of sleeves on a white dress shirt. He shoots upright so quickly that he's shocked that he isn't dizzy, but even more so that he's not bound in his bulky mesh and alloy prison. He's wearing a casual button-up and black suit pants over a well-worn pair of dress shoes. The outfit isn't neat, though… It's torn in places, stained in others, wrinkled beyond comprehension. It's a mess, just less of one than he was used to. It's the least of his worries.

Beyond his body he finds a pane of glass that looks out on an all too familiar cityscape, circled with schools of deep sea fish... His heart sinks.

No… No, he can't be in Rapture. It's a dream! It has to be, but… it feels so real. He can discern the texture of the wood floor, the temperature of the air tumbling from the vents overhead. Behind him, he finds bathyspheres resting in their births and he can even feel droplets of water as the little ripples lap against the unloading dock. It's too real. The back of his skull is on fire, so much so that he grasps at it on impulse with an irked hiss. In combination, each misery has his senses fit to explode - send his brains sprawling across the polished ground.

"Stop!" He cries out in desperation. "Stop! Stop! Stop! Please! Wake up!" He begs to whatever outside force can hear him and pull him out of this hellhole of agony and terror. His previous panic attack seems all too willing to return in sweeping waves. He feels like he's going to vomit, even gags, but nothing comes out - just burning. He pulls his knees to his chest and twists his fingers into his hair, his entire body shaking.

_Slam._

It's a dull sort of sound, distant but still distinct. Much of the volume is bounced from wall to wall through a door left broken and ajar on the wall to Augustus's right - beyond which he can just barely discern the shape of rubble and evident smears of a dark liquid… as though the crumbling structures have crushed someone. Fingers detangle from notably-healthier hair than he remembers and press upon the floor as leverage to help him stand… like he expects challenge in the action. There is no struggle. Where he braces for the dull, burning ache in his leg to give him pause, Sinclair experiences nothing - not even a twitch, a stumble or a sting. The only word for how he feels - at least in a purely physical sense - is normal.

_Slam._

This one sounds closer and pulls the Panamanian from his confused wonder. He turns to look at the left side for a means of escape and finds another large, metal door. Going off of experience, Augustus crosses to the left side of the room and tries the door. To his relief, it opens onto a long hallway with windows running its entire length and no living creatures in sight.

_Slam._

It's right across the bay, now, and Sinclair doesn't hesitate again. He's through the door and almost sprinting down the hallway, searching with eyes on a swivel for somewhere to lock himself up and scream until this awful nightmare is over. It is a nightmare, right? He knows he should be certain, but… He finds what looks to be a storage closet and slips in, shutting and locking the door behind him.

_Slam. _

It's far too close for comfort, almost like a bloodhound locked on his scent and bellowing down the halls in a call for his masters to follow. The thought of five inches of steel not nearly being enough seems ridiculous but he still turns to look about the room for more items to press against the threshold - a chair, a cabinet, something preferably heavy and metal. There's nothing of the sort in this room, though. There's a console… a moldy old mattress… a single red light that washes the space in a horrible, claustrophobic glow. He knows this room. He's more familiar with it than a prisoner with his own cell serving a life sentence.

This can't be happening. He can't be here. Caution to the wind and entirely in spite of the sound that had driven him here moments before, Sinclair forces himself out the door and back into what he thinks is the hallway from before. He skids to a stop when he finds that that is, in fact, not the case. To his left is the entrance of a tunnel, iced-over and blocking the path for an Atlantic Express engine left long dormant. To his right is the conductor's booth, windows glazed over with dust atop smears of what is undoubtedly blood. He refuses to state that obvious and opts instead to stop and take as deep of a breath as he can manage - admittedly much harder than he expects.

"Okay, Augustus… Okay." He runs his hands over his cheeks. "You went into surgery, you were put under. You're dreamin'. That's obvious." He assesses his surroundings once again, partially to make sure that nothing has shifted since he last laid eyes on it, but overall to try and get his bearings. It's now that he notices some aspects of this dream are much sharper than others. Certain, less important details of the space are fuzzy and in a state of incremental and constant transformation, be it a shift in color or an almost invisible morph of shape. Even the clearer objects are subject to this effect, though at a much less noticeable degree. Overall, this version of Rapture is in a state of limbo between convincing and distractingly-artificial. He feels both sick and relieved.

'_That's what Eleanor was sayin', then,' _the older man thinks, dipping his hands into his pockets. '_How'd she know I'd have this dream? Do Little Sisters have weird dreams?' _It's likely, especially considering her vague warning, or what he can remember of it. Many of the pre-unconscious interactions are taking far longer than they seemingly should to reorient themselves in his confusion-addled brain. Curiously, Sinclair walks across the room to the adjacent door which sweeps upward to reveal lavished office space under the aqua luminescence of the city's neon through thick panes of glass-alloy. The Panamanian allows himself a cautious step onward and into the now uncharacteristic poshness of this city space.

He, once again, recognizes it. This is Ryan's office. Many unpleasant yet lucrative interactions have happened in this room and they all leave an awful taste in his mouth, one he hasn't had previously where successful ventures are concerned. These days were ripe with new experiences… for better or for worse.

"_What's it like…? Lookin' Ryan dead in the face and hagglin' with him…?" _The voice comes from everywhere at once and echoes as though being spoken through a microphone in an empty theater. Its source is nowhere he can discern. He knows the voice, though… Of course he knows that voice - soft, kind…

...loving...

"_They play him up… Rich and powerful as he may be, 'The Great Man' is just that: a man. Makes sense, of course. It's not Ryan the people fear as plenty of gents, you included, could take him on in a scrap. It's his influence that has 'em all fussin' and kissin' up... "_

That one's his own… Younger and lighter, but still himself as sure as the sun is hot. Augustus rounds the desk and eyes the twisting, morphing face of a woman in a picture frame. Who it's supposed to be, he isn't sure. The hair switches from a blond bob to a curly head of raven and everything in between.

"_I'm kinda tired of the sneakin', if I'm honest... Do you ever wanna go out and eat dinner like a normal -"_ The pause makes him cringe. "_...August, what are we…?" _

"_Friends' was my asercion." _

"_Friends. We're __**friends**__?" _

He presses his hands into his ears, nails digging into the flesh of his scalp in a desperate attempt to drown out the noise… but it's everywhere. "_That's how I understood it. You read it differently, honey?"_

"_A __**bit**__, yes! I don't think friends get as intimate as you and I." _

"_Certain kinds…" _

"_Certain kinds. Like the 'friendships' you form in the alley…?" _

"_Sweetheart, we can't be... __**that**__... The thing you want us to be... " _

"_Why not?" _Those two words echo like thunder through a canyon. There comes no reply… Only silence after the reverberation - deafening… Augustus can't handle this ordeal anymore. He almost runs across the dark, wooden space and rips open the door. He doesn't even bother looking before he enters the next section of this illusion, causing him to almost trip over a terribly placed section of ceiling that has fallen and crashed nearly through the floor below - from which he is only able to prevent planting his face into the hardwood via a start and awkward shuffle.

**This **room is a dance hall, which one specifically has escaped his snafued mind. It's familiar, though. On the opposite end from Sinclair sits a pair of statues of humans. They are set back-to-back as perfect reflections of one another, arms reaching backwards and bodies leaned forwards on their toes. Beyond **them **is a giant, transparent pane. Large walls of glass in Rapture were always a subject of unease - though only to everyone except for Andrew Ryan himself who, Augustus suspects, liked to tote around the fact that his beloved creation was, indeed, underwater.

Similar to many of the other rooms Sinclair has seen thus far, this room is without electricity and is simply lit by the neon outside that illuminates through the aforementioned pane towards which Sinclair attempts to walk. No sooner than he takes a single step, a slim - almost boney - figure flies in from a balcony to the older man's far left and drags the protracted tip of a weaponized needle over the clear surface. Cracks web out like the branches of a lightning bolt and there isn't anything the man can do before the glass shatters and unleashes a cataclysmic flood unto the unsuspecting. The water is like a freight train. It slams him into the floor with enough force to crush bone before sweeping him up and throwing him into a spin so swift and violent that darkness claws its way out from the corners of his vision in an attempt to drag him under.

In the few minutes of the panicked tailspin, the pain sets in with vigor. It's like someone has taken a sledgehammer to his chest - beaten him senselessly over and over. In spite of the suffocating hands of the abyss, Augustus releases all of the air in his lungs in a strangled, muffled cry. The voices are clear, though… even here…

"_I know you… That symbol on your hand marks you a dead man… __Ten years, Subject Delta... since I watched you put a gun to your head and pull the trigger…" _

Delta.

He's not sure if he thinks the name or says it, but upon its utterance - verbal or not - the water just… vanishes. It's like it was never there and Sinclair is dropped unceremoniously onto a new, tile floor. The pain from the wave is gone, but replaced by a new sting in his back. The older man manages to put it aside long enough to sit himself upright and take in whatever fresh brand of suffering this dream wishes to inflict… but...

Behind him, he finds bathyspheres resting in their births and he can even feel droplets of water as the little ripples lap against the unloading dock… Beyond his body he finds a pane of glass that looks out on an all too familiar cityscape, circled with schools of deep sea fish...His head is spinning… or he's spinning. He doesn't know anymore and can't muster the cognitive strength to ponder it. He just wants out.

_Slam. _

It's the same volume as the first time. It comes from the same direction and is just as panic-inducing as each time before. He still doesn't know what it is, either. Why is he back here?

Slam.

It's like a fire ax on tin… Or when he'd call the horses into the stable by hitting an empty feeding trough with a lead pipe back in his youth.

_Slam. Slam. SLAM._

It's three in quick succession that break the rhythm followed by a deafening clatter. At a delay, Sinclair realizes what has happened - too much of one for him to properly formulate a new escape plan before the door to his right is wrenched farther open by a pair of large, brass-colored hands. The aperture-tipped fingers clutch the lip and continue to drag it upwards into its slit while holding Augustus in bated breath. The older man stares in abject horror as the creature ducks under the new breach. It is a big daddy, but that is all he is certain of. Which model now stands before him, breathing like a fire-breathing beast through a filtered helm, Sinclair cannot even begin to discern as the form of the monster morphs even more obviously than everything else within the nightmare.

No two details on its body originate with the same model at the same time. One moment, the helm is a Rosie but by the time Sinclair's eyes return to it via a flick it's a bouncer. No matter what this twisting, hazy amalgamate might actually be, the aggression is clear in its stance. Upon seeing Sinclair practically sprawled out on the tile floor, it bellows and starts at him - a raging bull. Worn dress-shoes scramble to find purchase on slick flooring, nearly anchoring him until a panicked roll slips him just shy of the creature's swinging, heavy fist. The hand smashes into the stairs of one of the loading bays with the force of a cannon and with only a little less destruction than one. A shard of rubble nicks Sinclair's cheek. It stings.

The little jolt of pain is all the Panamanian needs to finally find his footing and bolt without preamble back towards the left hallway… at least he would have had the searing, burning pain in his leg not returned with a vengeance. Sinclair stumbles and slams down on his chest, losing all the air in his lungs. "W-what? What!" he can't help but bark as he flips over and grabs the offending appendage. Even the slight pressure of his grip sends a wave of electrical fire through his system. '_I was fine a minute ago!_' In his confusion, he fails to catch sight of the amalgamate until the back of its hand is smashed hard into his right temple. Whatever agony has overtaken his leg, the agony of that strike is ten times worse - sends him sprawling onto his back and sliding across the floor a good ten feet.

It's real, the pain is real - like the texture of the floor, the temperature of the air. What's real anymore? Is this hell? Did he die on the table and this is where God chose to send him as the best way to punish him? This creature would be his personal demon, then. It bares down on him again, faster than any big daddy should ever be, and goes to slam a boot upon his exposed chest which Sinclair barely slips away from. In retaliation, the beast swings its arms widely and manages to catch Sinclair's right brow. In spite of the minimal contact, it still sends shockwaves over him and tosses him onto his left side with a grunt.

Weighing intensity rather than options, Augustus forces himself upright. He hisses against the ache and tries to hobble to the right side where the creature had come from. It was faster than him. This time it's a fist that collides with his flesh. It hits his spine with gun-like force and snaps his entire body into an agonizing arch. When he hits the floor this time, the world is beyond hazy. Through the bruises, the fire, the stabbing and shocking, his brain cannot muster the power to focus on anything else. Sinclair had no other senses - just touch.

The floor quakes with each hulking step - more and more as the thing draws closer. He swears he heard it moaning… maybe it was the rusting bathyspheres? Or maybe a support beam stressing under the lack of maintenance. It was so inhuman that any of these answers could've been just as likely as him just hallucinating it altogether. One thing he did know, though, was that each step was just as loud as the sounds he'd first heard upon waking mere feet away.

_Slam. Slam. Slam. _

_Silence._

Sinclair isn't sure how long he sits and waits but the impact he's been bracing for never arrives. Maybe it's minutes… possibly an hour. Whichever it was, it takes far too long for all of his senses to return and, when they do, he trudges through the intense sting to roll onto his back - to face the creature. Upon seeing it still there, he initially jumps, overtaken by a sinking, shaking panic… but that all simmers down when the beast fails to move. In fact, save for the constant shifting of its features, the thing is like a statue... He doesn't dare move, either. And that's how they sit for an indeterminate amount of time - staring. It's like the whole world is frozen in that exact moment. The form of the creature fills the entirety of his vision… its off-balance, stepping forward on its right foot with the left just inches above the floor.

In a scene that has Sinclair doing a double take and still struggling to process it, another hand reaches up from the beast's right shoulder. Brass-tipped fingers dig into the mesh of the morphing suit and all at once the visage becomes brittle... Like it's dissolving. In only a moment, dreamlike as it is, the beast has vanished in a weirdly serine flutter of ashen bits that stop existing as soon as they reach the floor… What stands in its place is the most vivid, most stable and detailed image he's seen in the entire experience...

Standing calmly, strong and proud… is Delta. He's fully suited - helm and all - but Sinclair knows it's him… He doesn't know why he knows… but he does. It's then that he feels compelled, almost forced, to affirm to his seemingly mythical companion that he was okay… And he was… For some strange, unfathomable reason the pain is entirely gone… He's floored… Absolutely floored.

"Del?" he manages to squeak through his bewilderment. Again, he knows it's him, he just can't wrap his head around it quite yet. The younger man walks with all the ease of an able-bodied buck and leans down with an offered hand. It takes far too long for Sinclair to take it, but when he does he's hoisted as though it were an ox on the other end. Once again, the insatiable urge to reassure the other rises like a flood. "I'm… Well… I suppose I'm alright. Not hurting, at least."

Delta nods and Sinclair has the feeling he's satisfied. All this time, the alpha hasn't released the other's hand and seemingly refuses to, even when Augustus tries to tug it away. Before he goes to voice the question, though, a thought crosses his mind just as clear and compelling as the last: '_I shouldn't do that._'

Why?

'_Trust him._' Of course he trusts Delta, but what purpose does holding his arm in a death grip serve? It's at that moment that Augustus realizes just how still and silent the room is. The shifting has all stopped mid-sequence. Turning towards the window, even the fish are hauntingly still...

"Is this a dream?" As opposed to hell, of course.

Delta nods.

"Are you real?" He's not exactly sure how much truth would come from asking a figment of his imagination if it was real if that's really what this version of Delta was, but he asks anyway. Again, the other nods along with squeezing the smaller man's forearm to better emphasize his answer. Right... He'd say the same thing even if he wasn't real, though... Probably. Since the Panamanian prefers this friendlier company, he cares not for the legitimacy of it - at least for now.

"Well, I, uh...I don't know about you but I gotta say I prefer the ones where I'm being chased by a big, tar-skinned demon through the woods." He laughs. He has to. He thinks if he does anything except joke at this point he'll absolutely lose what few strands of sanity he has left. At least the quip causes Delta to wheeze. "If… It's a dream… Then, do we have to be in Rapture? I mean, I hear people can have a certain kind of dream where they can control what's happening. Is this one of those?"

Sinclair's brain seems to answer that for him. It's not a voice, not a word, but a thought - abstract but understandable all at once while still being silent. It's both… This dream is both and neither at the same time - some parts malleable while others unmoveable. How does he know that?

He doesn't. He's being told.

"Delta… Are you... ?" He points to his temple, unable to completely convey it. What is that even called? The answer comes in just the same way as the first few - with a nod. "Does that mean it worked?" He can't help the tinge of hope that seeps into his words. That hope is partially dashed when Delta's response is an exaggerated shrug. That made sense, though. The younger man has only ever been bonded to one little sister so he doesn't know what a failed bonding experience is like. They could be entirely the same all the way through just for one of them to wake up alone… or for neither of them to awaken… ever again.

Augustus is pulled from his thoughts - literally - when Delta starts to lead him out the right side door. The Panamanian digs his heels in - or tries to. The effort to do so alone is enough to give the other man pause. The unspoken question manifests with but a glance between the two. "Why can't we just wait it out in here?" Delta cocks his head.

_I need to trust him. _Sinclair **does **trust Delta - he does! It's the location, not the company that breeds his hesitance. The larger man insists, though. He tugs a little less forcefully, more coaxing than anything, and Sinclair forces himself to swallow his doubts. He follows like a lost puppy on a leash as the larger man takes him across the horribly-damaged threshold into a room that looks entirely different than what he'd seen through the crack minutes earlier. It's par for the course at this point.

As are the disembodied voices.

This room is… Well, it looks to be flooded which is the perplexing thing. Sinclair is void of a suit but breathes beneath the wash and gravity-defying furnishings. It's the room he'd almost drowned in not long ago. Delta leads him onward, up onto the stage up to the shattered window.

"_In that suit, even the ocean cannot harm you… This is good… But Rapture is the death of many great men…" Tenenbaum has an almost melancholy tone to her voice here... _

They cross the boundary out into what Augustus expects to be the ocean floor. Then he blinks and finds that both he and Delta are somewhere entirely different. All it took was a blink, for god's sake! He isn't sure he can take much more of this confusion! The other's grip on his arm is all that's keeping him from lying down on the floor of what is now a pristine bar and shutting his brain off. It's a bar from the alley, he realizes. He used to frequent the place before Persephone was constructed - a good place to "meet" people. No sooner had the thought crossed his mind did Delta jerk his head around to stare back. It startled the older man a little.

"What?" The stare lasted another few seconds and then alpha turned back to the room. Did he hear something? Maybe he was looking past him rather than at him. It's hard to tell with that damned helmet. Speaking of which... "Why are you wearing your helmet? What've you got to hide from me anymore, chief?" The larger stops once more. His turnaround is far less aggressive than the first instance. Delta reaches up and places a hand flat against the side of the helm which brittles similarly to how the amalgamated big daddy had and, in the same fashion, it fell away in a gradual gust of ash.

Behind it is the same scarred, bent and discolored face from that morning. It's clarity only helps further convince him that the man before him is, in fact, the real Delta. As recognizable a face as the younger man has, Sinclair doesn't think he'd be able to remember it **this **vividly… And it's then that a searing pain shoots up from the back of his neck and branches out across the entirety of his skull. With the other hand grasped firmly in Delta's, Sinclair grips his forehead with the other, emitting a strangled hiss. He can feel Delta's hands shift to his shoulders, their encompassing nature feeling almost like a concerned embrace - welcome in ways he can't describe but there through consequences that leave him unable to reciprocate or even tell the other man what's wrong.

Sinclair can only manage to crack open his eyes just in time to see something slithering along the walls over Delta's left shoulder. The widening of his eyes must've alerted the big daddy because he spins around to see tendrils of what looks like tar-covered human tissue constricting about anything and everything they come across in their snake-like journey towards the two men. Judging by the younger man's clear confusion, Augustus wagers that this is - unlike the rest of the experience which the man had been entirely calm towards - something completely out of left field. The suited man naturally puts himself between his companion and the invading force which spreads to the floor and nearly all of the surrounding space before it's lapping at their toes mere seconds later.

Out of impulse, the Panamanian avoids the tar-covered floor as best he can but the clear space between the two men vanishes under the unrelenting onslaught which springs upwards and coils around his ankles. The two of them aren't even given a second to panic before Delta's grip is wrenched away and Augustus is practically swallowed by the abyss now coating the once hardwood floors with but a yelp that is cut clean apart. Delta's own panic is conveyed through a strangled sound Sinclair never hears finished.

His scream bounces around him in an empty, lightless void. "Delta!" he all but screeches in throat-shredding horror. "Delta!" The only reply is his own voice shouting back at him. He is entirely alone in the blackness… falling seemingly infinitely. This is too much time to realize what's happening, to take in the sensation of freefall and emotional whiplash. He swears he can still feel the ghost of Delta's grip upon his shoulders, it was that sudden. Then the walls reach out. They grap at him with the same tendrils that sucked him down and they yank him backwards. In a blink - only a blink - the nothing has become something. He's tied to a chair in an uncharacteristically clean portion of Rapture… No… Not entirely Rapture… He knows this room.

A figure manifests from the darkness, illuminated by the window to his right. Her facial details aren't entirely consistent, shifting as many things do in this strange realm, but she is still recognizable… Her blond hair curled so neatly.

"_Do you know what you have put into motion, Mister Sinclair?"_ her voice is more vivid than it has any right to me… and all too sickly-sweet. "_I was trying to fix the mess that Andrew Ryan and men like you created - give these people hope for a better tomorrow, rebuild Rapture as a true Utopia. Instead, you and your pet aim to drown us all." _Augustus doesn't respond. He's too entirely transfixed on the minute morphing of Lamb's expression. She answers as though he had.

"_You are suffering, Augustus. You and Delta both. You are products of a dying era and you had a choice: relinquish your death grip on the old ways or meet your inevitable fate. Well, Sinclair… The inevitable is here. I will give you one last chance to help the family. Please… Tell me the codes." _

Again, he doesn't answer her specifically. "This is… a memory…" he breathes. Lamb leans back, her distorting lips going tight against the sigh she lets out.

"_Let it be known that you chose this path, Augustus. It was your decisions that put you here before me and what caused the coming events. What I do, I do for the greater good." _Sophia fades away, followed not long after by the room. The chair stays as well, but the bindings slowly drop away, allowing the older man to bring his hands to eye-level. They aren't bare anymore... A familiar covering bulks them up in a waterproof mesh accented by bits of copper-colored metal. He looks up just in time to see the helm placed over his shoulders and facened into place by invisible hands. From beyond the yellow-tinted visor, all he can see is Lamb's stern, cold glare.

"_You have one mission, Subject Omega... Stop Subject Delta and bring my daughter back to me. This is your purpose… your contribution to the greater good of Rapture. Delta must be put down." _When she says those final words, there's a bite to them… malice, maybe… a little bit of contempt. He certainly understands, looking at the situation from her point of view - backed into a corner, beaten at almost every turn… Capturing him gave her a trump card.

Sinclair stumbles forward out of the chair and finds his hands now braced against a control console. He looks up and finds a viewing window - the warden's office. The older man leans forward and sees a morphing figure crossing the blocks. He doesn't need to wonder… to take guesses or try to focus on it… He knows who it is. His voice rings out around him, but it isn't his current self that speaks the aching, struggling words.

"_...Wish I had time to make amends... I…" _He never finished that sentence… not the way he was supposed to. All he can see now is that yellow visor… staring up at him from the cells below - increasingly bright and forcing him to imagine what pitying or angry expression lay beyond.

Then the screaming starts.

The scene before him is as still as stone and around him all he can hear is agony… rage... delirium. Some of the awful sounds are accompanied by the clear thrum of electricity, others by the roar of fire but all of them filled with undeniable and inescapable pain. The sounds soon become less and less human, deepening and growing more akin to the bellow of a monster that hides under children's beds… all the while, there's an awe in the background… people marveling as though they were viewing one of Cohen's interpretive dance showcases.

The Panamanian clenches his eyes shut. He begs any obedient part of his brain to vanquish his senses and he thinks it so when the sound stops only to open his eyes and find himself bound by the black tendrils to a theater chair in the front row… His head is forced against the rest so that he may look up at the stage which is encased in glass. Upon it is a man… his body changes like all the others but certain aspects remain constant… His body, which is chained down on its knees, is strong and lean… His ginger hair hangs over his down-turned forehead.

From the right side, a man in a clean, crisp suit struts up to the battered and restrained being and holds up a syringe. The faceless crowd all around Augustus chatters with a sickening wonder, even more so when the presenter grabs the man's head, forces it to the side and aims the needle into the crook of his neck. The older man can't close his eyes, he can't look away. All he can do is cringe when he sees the spike plunged into the pale, bruised flesh and the immediate reaction causes his head to shoot upwards. Muscles tense all over the man's body as the electricity runs its course.

The presenter steps off. As soon as he's away from the line of fire, the restraints are released and the practically buzzing man shoots up like a bat out of hell. Sparks burst from every finger, every inch of bare skin… And those eyes… those sea-green eyes… stare. They stare right. At. Him. As Clear and as vivid as sunlight...

...As poor old "Johnny Topside" screams until he's almost gargling the blood from his shredded vocal cords…

Sinclair strains against his ties. "Delta!" He bellows, trying to be heard over the horrid sound. "For God's sake, Delta!" Tears as hot and stinging as lava pour down his face. The man's muscles spasm as he fires off a stream of electricity at the glass. It fans out and bathes the crowd in white, flashing light… elicits a start and then disgusting applause. All his skin is red and blistering, his eyes hazing with pin-pricked pupils, his muscles practically having mini seizures.

"_Son… I built this place… And I did rent you out to those plasmid trials at Fontaine…" _

His voice is entirely gone… He just… watches now… Watches as "Johnny Topside" staggers backwards… falls... lands like a rock on the stage… The sound he makes when he hits the wood is hollow… It's like a corpse.

"_Do not pretend you value mercy, Subject Delta… Keeping him alive does not make you right… The things that man has done, not just to you but to hundreds of innocent people… He is so heartless and cruel that he entertains your delusion… Prolongs your suffering. He does not deserve your mercy…" _

"I'm sorry... " The tethers loosen a little.

"I'm sorry, Delta… I'm sorry…" A little more, now. His voice is bloated like he's speaking with a throat full of syrup. "I'm sorry... I'm sorry…" The scene does not fade away… The body lies on the stage, breathing heavily and emitting little, garbled groans... The crowd chatters like it's the least important thing in the world. "I'm sorry." As the tendrils drop, so do his hands. They hand loosely at his sides and his head drops like dead weight. He can't even keep his eyes open.

The crowd dies down, his tears eventually stop flowing, the cold and quiet envelops him with boney fingers… but the breathing stays… becomes louder when a pair of strong, gloved hands grab his upper arms and pull him close, wrap him in an embrace that makes him sick instead of comforted. "I'm sorry."

Then he opens his eyes.


	8. Chapter 8: A Letter of Sorts

_\- It's a short in-between chapter today, guys. I know it's far from my usual length, but I promise things will be picking up from here on out.-_

* * *

It's a story passed around in hushed voices at the back of a pier-side pub... Men both young and old, experienced and green as rye grass alike spout the details in what almost appears to be apprehension - as though this tale, unlike those of giant fish and spearing whales, had some merit to it, a kind that made these sailors quiet. Only the youngest of them gave anything of use, beer in hand.

"One of the ones in the suits… 'E was real smooth-like... Looked like absolute shit 'alf the time but talked like 'E was tryna sell me a car."

"What about the other one?" Someone across the table asks, a laugh trailing his words. He's obviously humoring the kid.

"Th' other one was the weird part, y'see. Din' talk at all! Din' even take off the helmet. Whole two weeks 'n he never said a single word. E' just lumber 'round the ship moanin' like an angry spirit." He tries to imitate the sounds, but his drunken state doesn't seem to quite convey his fuzzy memories. It's enough, though. To the right person, it paints a flawless picture. Said person stands from his table near the door and exits the pub. Beyond is the boardwalk along the wharf.

This man is rat-like in the face and thin to a similar degree. Merely by the way he carries himself, he comes across as the slippery type - too bold for his own good. In spite of his lack of muscle, he carries himself with a puffed chest and misplaced confidence through pocketed hands and a sly upturn of his slightly wrinkled lips. The man strolls across the walk towards the back bay. There, he finds an old dry dock bathed in nightlight and void of human life. He's almost at home among the rats who scurry about the railing but he avoids the water. Simply looking at the lapping waves sends a chill up his prominent spine.

"So…?" The man now approaching from his left chimes into the hushed whisper of a harbor's night, figure barely readable among the din but clearly swathed in a heavy coat.

"I was right on the money. Told you so. Got two big names roaming about up here. They arrived in New York a little while ago with a whole orphanage."

"And these big names are…?"

"Well, goin' off of what I saw in Rapture and what I heard here and there, I believe pretty confidently that one of these gents is Augustus Sinclair. He meets a lot of your criteria: Big wig back in Rapture's hay-day, played a big part in the civil war, was a primary investor, had his own research division." He pulls a cigarette from his pocket and takes the time to light it and suck in a lungful before proceeding. "The second one is vague and I can't say with much certainty, but I believe Subject Delta is with him. Strong silent type in a protector suit. A lot of them fit that profile, but Ol' Johnny Topside is my best guess."

"And what's so special about this protector?"

"Historically, he was the first big daddy to ever be bonded with a little sister. For our purposes, nothin'. He's the same as all the rest of them, I just bring him up because he's apparently here and was a big name back in the day, before he became a hunk 'a lumberin' asshole."

"And who was he before?"

"Some deep-sea diver who found the city by accident. Became a celebrity for it, but never told anyone his name or anythin' so people always suspected that Ryan got paranoid and had him locked up like a lot of other poor saps. Couldn't help us, though. The process of makin' big daddies cleans their craniums until they shine."

"Would getting him out of the way be an issue?"

The thin man pauses, his cigarette hanging between thumb and index finger. "Depends on how you define 'out of the way.' If you mean killin' him, pretty damn hard. That son of a bitch fought tooth and nail through basically an army to escape Rapture. I know first hand how fuckin' dangerous he is and, I mean no disrespect but you'd be wise not to underestimate Ol' Johnny, or any big daddy for that matter. They could rip your skull in two with their bare hands. Delta ain't no exception. In fact, he's smarter than a lot of other big daddies… Always seemed more aware. Someone's home."

The other glances around in thought before his eyes drift up and meet those of the other. They are remarkable eyes… Burning umber like the finest whiskey. "Find them. We'll figure it out from there."

The first flicks away his cigarette into the dry dock with a dip of his chin.

…

He opens his eyes. They see not the morphing visage of Rapture - not neon lights reflecting against polished hardwood and tile - but instead a ceiling of cold, dull concrete washed in the sterile glow of industrial lights. It's bright. It's stable. It's real… real like the rattling gasp which breaks the deafening silence to his left. It's on instinct that he jerks his head over and sees pale skin made nearly blinding in the white light... Delta's eyes are blown wide… Maybe his own appearance is almost identical.

Sinclair isn't prepared, could never be prepared, for when those sea-green gems lock with the dull, almost lifeless hazel of his own… for they are unreadable, just as he knew they'd be… and yet, he knows exactly what the other is thinking, what questions he's asking in their shared silence. They rush through his brain like bullets. How does he even begin to answer?

'_Am I okay? Yes, I'm okay,'_ He thinks. It's a lie. '_I know... No, I'm not. But I'll manage for now… Yeah, I'm hungry, too.' _And before he knows it, the two of them are having a conversation. It seems like it should be like talking to a brick wall, but it isn't. It's… different, but not lonely. He'd never thought such a thing would be possible, that maybe what had been happening in their dream was exclusive to that dreadful fantasy world. Apparently not. Three or four questions down the line, Augustus manages to actually wake up.

"Del, I... "

_Say it. Say it in this world. Not in your head, or in a dream where it's worthless... _

Intrusive thoughts urge that he doesn't need to say it… that Delta knows, that he heard it over and over, but…

"...I'm sorry…" He knows and Sinclair knows he knows, but he feels that this time… it means more. It means _something. _"Just… I needed to say it… for real." Delta nods knowingly. The Panamanian stops another thought just as it starts to work its way into his brain. "Don't say it. Don't ever say it." '_He's not saying it, he's thinking it.' _"Don't be a smartass, either." One of those charming, twitching grins sends shockwaves through Sinclair's weakened body and the reaction to it only seems to make it grow wider. "Very cute. Now, stop." The larger man wheezes his little laugh and nuzzles into his pillow, soft smile remaining in his new relaxed posture as though Delta is… Sinclair can't believe it, but the man is actually teasing him.

"My god, the tin man doesn't just have a heart, he's got a sense of humor." The Panamanian sighs and practically melts into the bed, still watching the gentle expression staring back at him. "Are… _you_ okay?" Delta nods. "And you called _me_ a liar." This time, they both smile… They are hurt smiles that lightly twist into the beginnings of a cringe, but smiles nonetheless. God, Sinclair's face feels like it's on fire… among other body parts in a far less pleasant way. "I don't mean to ruin this lovely confab we have goin', Del, but… Damn, I am hurting like hell. The back of my head feels like -" His right hand wanders absentmindedly towards the spot of ire but finds itself mimicking a statue upon grazing its fingers across a gauze patch. Just the slightest ghost of pressure sends chilling tendrils of sharp pain through his barely-awake form. The area around the patch is shaved clean.

"Ah- I'm guessin' that's where…" Sinclair cringes and moves his hand back to his lap. "... They implanted the little signal thing."

Delta sits up with some effort and turns his head just enough for Sinclair to see a square-shaped scar at the base of his skull. It's barely visible against the already pale complexion of the rest of the younger man's flesh. '_They didn't even have to touch his,_' Augustus thinks with a tinge of displeasure. In response, Delta scowls exaggeratedly. "Don't mind me, chief. I'm just bitter when I'm hurting…" He pauses, slowly allowing his smile to slip away.

"Will… will that dream happen again?"

Delta shakes his head. '_It shouldn't._'

"I hope not, 'cause I'm ready to pass right back out... Maybe you should rest some more, too."

'_He'll try.' _

It's as much of an assurance as he's ever going to get from a mute companion. With that, Augustus lets out but a single sigh and presses back into the soft - though slightly distance - vice of his pillow. From there, it takes him no time at all to be consumed by the void of sleep, leaving only Delta in the waking world. The younger man watches him as he dozes off, dropping his smile as soon as Sinclair's hazel eyes are no longer visible in the din.

There are gaps in his memory that he never wished to be filled… Incidents he's been told about but never needed to see… Incidents put in motion in part by the man now sleeping in the bed across from him, by the man he's been getting closer and closer to over the course of almost two months. All this time, he's told himself that he doesn't care about the past - now matters more than then... But… What say he now? Why in all those memories is it only Delta that bothers him - that weighs on Sinclair's conscience? Because there are no faces to put to the suffering of the rest?

There's something distinct and life-altering about witnessing trauma first hand as opposed to merely being told it existed and perhaps that is the answer, then… Sinclair doesn't know the other victims… He only cares about Delta's suffering because he's met Delta… Is that Selfish or just human nature? Would knowing the others he's harmed be too much for him to handle? Is this why he couldn't look at Delta's face? So many little voices in the young Alpha's head cry out with accusations of heartlessness, though those same voices know the opposite to be true. Augustus Sinclair is not heartless, not a monster - even if his actions are indeed monstrous.

Forgivable? Maybe days ago, he would have said 'yes' without hesitation. Now? Now he isn't so sure. Of course, Sinclair is sorry and being sorry is worth at least a nickel, though it's a nickel towards an ever-rising debt reaching in the thousands. That's the issue, he realizes. Augustus had it right in their hotel room what seems like years ago now - 'Sorry' doesn't fix anything. 'Sorry' placates, but it doesn't mend. It certainly hasn't helped the older man's guilt.

His guilt…

When Sinclair says 'sorry,' he means it. It isn't his way of finding an out or dismissing his sins. In this instance, 'sorry' isn't a hollow attempt at civility. It's an admission of guilt - letting the one and only victim that he can put a face to know that he does feel guilty. And that's the hopeful part, Delta guesses - that Sinclair does feel guilty which means he is not, in fact, heartless. Could he forgive Augustus, though? There is no quick 'yes' or 'no' when he asks himself that question - no black or white answers, just a massive area of grey - of 'maybe-s' and 'possibly-s'. Is that wrong? He ponders it as much as his exhausted brain can as it drifts off to sleep maybe an hour after his troubled companion.

Neither of them are okay.

…

_He recognizes this voice, the one which speaks to him through the darkness, but not directly. He knows that it is of Augustus's memories and that it sounds as though it's reading from a script- speaking cordially like presenting a passionate declaration to a misty-eyed crowd… the contents, however, are personal - never meant for more than one set of ears… and yet here is… listening to them, unintentionally invading someone's privacy… Not that either of them had privacy anymore, though... _

"_To Augustus... I cannot begin to imagine what goes through your head. You are quite possibly the most complicated man in all of Rapture - more than Andrew Ryan, than Sander Cohen, than Sophia Lamb... "_

_It speaks with a thick, southern drawl, one considerably less sophisticated than Sinclair's, though equally as well-read it seems… Intelligence in a less refined form. Maybe that makes it more earnest._

"_...I wanted to understand, however, as that complexity ensnared me from the moment I met you. You spoke in pretty-sounding circles like your voice was dancing with me…"_

_This man chose his words carefully. As for the content of them so far, Delta can entirely relate. _

"_... But something is wrong in that head of yours. You have your priorities twisted up and seem to be of the mind that people such as me, people who love you and your every little flaw, matter less than those who would drown you given the chance…" _

_He takes a breath full of tears, words catching in his throat. What he speaks next, it's on the verge of sobs and through clenched teeth - though he is invisible, Delta can hear it. He can hear it in every single word._

"_...And I do love you, August. When I told you that, it wasn't because I had a little infatuation that would eventually fade like a high school crush... I just…" _

_He's off-script now, speaking from his mind and losing all of the decorum in exchange for something far more pure._

"_I'm done. I love you, but I'm done. Last night was it for me. You are obviously confused and scared of things about yourself that are beyond your control. I wanna say that I'll be back when you can figure yourself out, but I know that that isn't true. I can't wait for you… because I know what I need. I know what I want. I am not going to sit around and wait because one day you __**might **__have some sort of epiphany." _

_In this pause, he hears many deep breaths and little sniffles - even a gulp of almost comical volume. _

"_It fucking hurt, you know? Seeing you flirt with women at parties and then having you say it's just for appearances, to keep Rapture off our backs. You didn't have to do it, though. You try so fucking hard to make everyone believe that you bat for the "right" team because god forbid people look at you the way they do Cohen. You go on and on about Cohen. Say such bitter things about him... But you know what? You don't hate him for the reasons you think you do. You can stamp and deny it 'til the sun falls down, but you know it's true… I'm rambling, though… Talking to a brick wall, maybe your trash can. I dunno."_

_Sadness fades to exhaustion._

"_Anyway... Don't… Try to talk to me. Please. Not for a while, at least. It's better for both of us." _

_It's a recording, Delta realizes at a delay when he hears the machine click as though someone is tapping on the microphone._

"_Good-bye, Augustus." _

_Then it stops. A few clicks, some warbling and the voice vanishes into the void from which it came. _


	9. Chapter 9: Was

"People aren't making it easy," the younger man says as he runs both hands roughly down his face. "Someone said they saw them downtown at a homeless shelter. Someone else said they were at a hotel on the back bay. Obviously a bunch of 'em are just spreading rumors for the hell of it and it's hard to tell the difference." Those very same whiskey-colored eyes glare at him over the dim glow of a lit cigarette. They are warm only in color, casting a steely, frigid glower across the way at his more animated "companion." When it comes to his disdain, the gentleman doesn't even try to hide it, which the other can respect in earnest. Far too long has the younger witnessed the social balancing act performed in Ryan's utopia.

"I'm paying you to figure out the difference, Miser Poole."

Stanley Poole, a man of rat-like presentation, puffs on his own cigarette and wrestles with the urge to snap back indignantly. Instead, Stanley removes the spent stick and tosses it into a puddle at their feet. "Right. I'll check the rumors, maybe scope out the back bay. I have to wonder what their plan is, though. That would definitely help."

"Surely you have some ideas?" The larger shifts, getting up from his leaning position on the brick wall behind which they have both secluded themselves. Indeed, Poole does have _some _ideas but there is little evidence in any direction. Any of said ideas could be probable in equal measure.

"Yeah. I do. Care to hear them?"

"Couldn't hurt."

"Right. Well, They both have to be in Alpha suits. Subject Delta is an Alpha for sure and the word around the block is that the other one - who I'm certain is Sinclair - didn't have a helmet. Only Alpha series Big Daddies can remove their helmets. The rest have their organs grafted into the suits - the suits ARE their bodies, essentially. Theoretically, Alpha's can be removed from their suits if they find someone who knows how to do it. I'm bettin' that our two gents would very much like to have those suits off seein' as they can't do much with 'em on."

"So, they'll likely contact any survivors that made it to the surface or anyone that has been in contact themselves…" Those burning eyes widen just marginally with realization. "Tenenbaum."

"Bingo." Poole creates a faux gun with his thumb and forefinger. "Your golden goose. The second rumor is that they have a lot of kids with 'em - former little sisters. I can't see any person wantin' to keep that many little shits around so they'll probably try to find somewhere for 'em to go. Families, orphanages, that sort of thing. Ol' Johnny fancies himself a saint, so he wouldn't just abandon any of 'em. They all gotta be in the age range of five to eight. Around ten, they phase 'em out."

"Both could be the case easily."

"Easily. Almost certainly. There bein' kids with 'em lines up too well for it to just be a weird embellishment. I heard somethin' new recently, too… There was someone else with 'em - a teenage girl. The guy at the pub didn't elaborate too much on her, but the only person I could see it being is Eleanor Lamb, daughter of that religious fanatic I told you about - Sophia. She was Subject Delta's little sister when she was tiny. Guess she never forgot about the big idiot who was brainwashed into babysittin' her because she made a big stink over it and threw all of her mom's plans out the window just to see him again. Ol' Johnny's whole thing was gettin' her out, so it has to be her."

"Is she a problem?"

"That's just it, pal… I don't know. She was a thorn in my side as a kid and I can't imagine she's any less of one as a teenager.

The older man takes a deep breath and practically chews the butt of his cigarette. "You tell me that this Big Daddy, Subject Delta, is inconsequential but it seems to me that he's a common thread that you keep unwinding every time you give me a progress report."

"It doesn't mean nothin'. He's easily influenced, is all. Get him to care a little bit about someone and he'll do whatever the hell they want him to. He's just the muscle to other people's plans. Muscle don't mean nothin' without a brain."

"You told me that he _has_ a brain."

"I said he's smarter than other Big Daddies, but when other Big Daddies only have two thoughts, that's not a high bar to set."

"But he won't be a problem?"

"Never said he wouldn't be. He's not useful to us from what you've told me but he could be a problem - **will **be a problem." To that, the brown-eyed man lets out one last huff of pungent smoke and spits the butt across the walk, into the water. He's clearly irritated with the rise of his shoulders and new, jerky tinge to his previously sedated mannerisms. "There's one surefire way to put him down, though." With that, the other's attention is entirely recaptured, though his anger remains intact. "Alphas had one big flaw - If they lost their connection to their little sister, they'd fall into a coma and die. As far as I'm aware, Delta is still connected to little Lamb, so if we take care of her, he's in the grave with her."

"So you expect me to find a way to get to a girl that this beast is protecting so that I can kill her and have him tumble after? We need to get him out of the way, but to get him out of the way we have to kill someone that he'd need to be out of the way to kill."

"We just need to distract him. They don't know we're after 'em. They won't be expecting any attacks. We give some idiot-for-hire a gun and he could walk right up and put one between her eyes. Then we capture Sinclair, he can tell us what we need to know and we'll be set for life."

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves. The next time we meet, you better know exactly where they are - otherwise we'll have to renegotiate our arrangement." Just as abruptly as the time before, the older man struts off down the walk and leaves Stanley with far more left unsaid than he would've liked. Still, it's better than working with Lamb. Poole takes off himself once the other is out of sight and begins to work his way towards the next business on his list - a physical list, as a matter of fact, that he keeps on a notepad in his lapel which states that his target is a less opulent establishment called The Americana Inn. It's a taxi ride away for sure - walking almost five miles and avoiding leaving a trail be damned. Who gives a damn if some minimum-wage, wanna-be chauffeur sees his face? They see hundreds per day and forget every single one.

The one who takes him to the Inn is a respectable enough gentleman - from the Boston-Jersey area if his accent is any indication. He keeps the talk to a minimum and his eyes on the road until the time to pay comes about. The building in question is smaller and made of standard brick - perhaps only a few stories high and comparably short to other, more preferable locations. '_That lines up,'_ Poole thinks under his scrutinizing glare. '_With all those kids, they couldn't possibly afford to stay in a big hotel for more than a day._' Inside isn't much better in terms of decor. The main reception area can't hold more than ten people comfortably and has this horribly faded red carpet that shows every foot-print and scrape in vivid detail.

At the counter is an older woman of plump proportions who greets him cheerily though she is very obviously ready to fall over and sleep wherever the hell she lands. "Welcome to the Americana Inn."

With as much of his own charm as he can conjure up from the depths of his uncaring mind, Stanley leans upon the desk and wears the most innocently-concerned mask he can possibly scrounge up. "Evenin', ma'am. I hope you can help me 'cause I'm losin' hope here. You see, I just flew in from Florida and I was supposed to be travelin' with my brother and a friend 'a his, but there was a mix-up with our flight and they overbooked. I told them to go on ahead and I'd be on the next flight, but it seems they weren't at the hotel we planned to meet at. I'm thinkin' they were confused and went to a different hotel - which I totally understand seein' the mess we've already waded through - but I can't seem to find which one that is. You haven't happened to see two fella's in strange clothes around, have you? You'd remember my brother. He's a handsome fella and talks like he's trying to cover the fact that he's from a farm in Georgia. Real suave-like."

The lady cocks her head. It seems she's working on a delay tonight. "What sort of strange clothes do you mean, sir?"

Poole laughs. "Oh, I promise you would have never seen anything like it. He and his buddy are deep-sea divers, you see, and we had to leave for this trip as soon as they got off the boat. They're in these bulky, canvas and brass diving suits. They said they'd change after they checked into the hotel." That very concept seems beyond perplexing to her, souring any hope Stanley has in this location. Still, he humors her as she tries to think back at all the faces she's possibly seen over the past few days - not that a sight such as a big daddy could slip any surface-dweller's mind.

"I don't believe we've had such a guest, but I can check the ledger in-case they came in while someone else was at the desk. What name would it be under?"

"That would be much appreciated. It's, uh, Augustus Sinclair." Because who else could properly make a reservation? She flips through a large book, going back what looks like many weeks before shaking her head and giving an apologetic grimace.

"We have a Stella Sinclair, but no one else by that name. I'm sorry, sir."

"No worries, ma'am. They have to be in this area. There aren't too many more places. I'm sure someone has seen his crazy self. He's hard to miss." They exchange a few more pleasantries and Stanley exits into the early morning which has barely put a damper on the actual life of this section of noisy society. Poole's mood, however, is _very _damp. It's a perpetually fruitless endeavor, he starts to dread, making tracks all across the city and getting absolutely nowhere substantial but the alternative to finding Augustus Sinclair - or at least someone affiliated with him who is preferably Tenenbaum - is something he'd rather not explore. In direct opposition to Tenenbaum, Sinclair had never been a hard man to reach. No, he never traveled anywhere alone but the man didn't seem to fear assassination in spite of his prominant place at Rapture's most exclusive table: The wealthy.

As a matter of fact, even though he often claimed to despise Rapture's high society, Sinclair was an extremely social animal who found it difficult not to discreetly work his way into people's conversations with such efficiency that one wouldn't be a fool for thinking the man was addicted to human interaction. Maybe he was simply networking, but Stanley's hope is that his "dearest brother" is keeping up with old habits and someone has had a notable enough interaction with the panamanian to share.

Poole goes down the list and spins his yarn at two more hotels on this side of the city, getting the same apologetic responses each and every time, the same as all the others he's attempted. All the while, a headache starts to pound the inside of his head like a gong. By the time he reaches the next place, the sun is coming out and people are getting up and leaving for work or the next location in their travels. It's the same song and dance - fake a smile, tell the long-winded, bullshit tale but opposed to every other time, Stanley doesn't even get to finish the last sentence before he's interrupted by the young girl at the counter.

"Is that what those suits were? Everyone thought it was too rude to ask…" Poole fights off an ear-to-ear grin.

"They're here?" he asks hopefully.

"They _were_. Really early yesterday they checked out and loaded into a delivery truck of all things."

"Were they with anyone?"

"Yeah, a bunch of little girls, a colored man and a kinda ratty-looking woman with a funny accent. Seems like they were in a hurry. Your brother's friend, though… the other one in the suit? We never learned his name or anything - never even saw his face, but we're all a little worried about him."

Though he's more than angry about the group giving him the slip, Poole's interest is piqued by that last part. He leans onto the desk with a raised brow. "Why? Was somethin' wrong with him?"

"Well, when they left, he could barely stand up on his own. Three people had to help walk him to the truck." Now that is quite interesting indeed… A weak Big Daddy. What could have caused it? Injury? Illness? Did someone do their job for them? For the time being, that doesn't matter. What does is that Delta is out of sorts and Stanley has an opportunity.

…

The "soup" he's handed almost every afternoon always has the same, bitter taste and unpleasantly-pungent smell. One of the doctors said it was pumped full of vitamins and other medication that would help ease the effects of the surgery, even if the worst that Sinclair has yet experienced is headaches. In spite of its detestable attributes, both men suck down their liquid meals like neither has eaten in months. Watching Delta try to eat anything liquid from a bowl is especially entertaining due to the right side of his mouth always twitching as though someone is running an electric current through it.

In this time where they are both bedridden, Augustus has taken the initiative to memorize Delta's little quirks - that being one of them - which has helped kindle an odd sort of appreciation the younger man be it amusement at the way he bares his teeth when he yawns or getting a fond flutter in his ribs when Delta laughs his almost silent little laugh. He does it when he catches Augustus watching him practically spill a good few spoonfuls of broth down his neck and all of it with a tiny, embarrassed smirk. He laughs back. He always laughs back. He can't stop it. It's like every sound or expression is contagious.

In those fleeting moments, he feels like he's being cut… like someone waits in the shadows for him to experience any tinge of joy just to come out and remind him of everything wrong in his world. '_Look at his scars,_' those voices say. '_You did that. You hurt him._' It is with all of his soul that Augustus prays Delta cannot hear them, too. Out of every instant and unstoppable thought, please let these ones be the ones that slip in one ear and out the other… The way Delta's smile drops half of an inch every single time says otherwise. When it comes to that, though, Sinclair had asked Tenenbaum a myriad of questions as soon as he could.

It wasn't long after he'd first woken up. He woke before Delta the second time and found Birgid ambling in to check on them with as grave a face as ever - one would think the operation went wrong somehow. She herself asked the expected things - questions blown off as Sinclair intended to get right to the meat.

"He's… supposed to be able to talk to me up here, right…?" He taps his head demonstratively. In response, Tenenbaum nods. "Am… I supposed to _hear_ him?"

"No. He can hear your thoughts in your voice, but you do not get the same. At least, that is what the little ones have said it is like. _Do _you hear him?"

"No, it's… I don't really hear anything but I know he's talking to me. For example, I can think of questions I want to ask and suddenly I just… know the answers. It's just there, no voice or anything but I know it's him somehow."

Bigid's expression is bare but her eyes are thoughtful, looking down at her lap as though trying to think of the best way to explain it. "Sinclair, do you know what a Babirusa is?"

Confused, the man answers honestly and with a hint of apprehension. "Uhh… No."

"Could you tell me what sound it makes?"

"No."

"This is the same principle. Delta has never heard his own voice - or does not remember hearing it. Yes, he could try to imagine what it sounds like, but the sound in his head would be inconsistent without concrete reference, so he speaks to you in this way so that you may be comfortable and not constantly hear unfamiliar voices in your head."

That was three days ago, now, and he _has _gotten quite used to the other's strange form of communication. Delta himself is already so much stronger, as well. Energetic, even. Augustus wishes he had the emotional wherewithal to celebrate it… Thankfully, Eleanor has enough for an entire party. To say the girl is happy is a gross understatement as her smile has only dropped in sleep which she does at her "father's" side in what has to be a terribly uncomfortable old office chair. In those moments, Sinclair catches the rare stray rays of happiness that bounce off of Delta's mind and into his - an instance of strange duality as Delta seems to be able to control what parts of his mental processes leak over to Augustus whereas Augustus can't seem to stop anything from bleeding into poor Delta's mind. The amount of times already that the younger man has jerked his head over with a humorous expression due to reading something that the other had accidentally sent his way is staggering.

When asked on how to put up the mental dam, Delta merely shrugged and "said" something to the effect of "I can't explain it. I just learned to do it somehow." As irritating as that answer is, it makes perfect sense. In matters of the mind, a lot of things are abstract and beyond human understanding but Sinclair imagines that it is like building an immunity to something through use like being able to handle more alcohol before getting drunk due to regular intake. The younger man chuckled at that analogy but relented that it was the best theory he'd heard for it and he'd subscribe to the idea until someone of greater authority told him otherwise. That is gratifying, at least.

After the two of them finish their less than satisfying lunch, Delta lays back to nap. The two of them spend much of their days doing that. It's what the doctors recommend, but it's maddening to the older man. So much so that he's still wide awake into the late-night beams of moonlight that shine in through a very small window towards the ceiling of the room. Either days have gotten shorter or he's simply lost track of time. Either way, Tenenbaum finds him sitting up and staring at the wall across from his bed and sighs. That wrenches Sinclair from his thoughts.

"Evenin', Doctor," is all he can think to say in the strange weightless state of mind.

"It is almost morning, actually," she replies and crosses her arms. "You need much sleep, Sinclair. Your bond with Delta is still fragile and we want the both of you as rested as possible before we move you."

"That happening soon?"

"Arrangements have finally been made, yes. As of moments ago. I was going to wait until morning to tell the both of you, but we are taking a plane to Massechusettes tomorrow afternoon. There's a safehouse there where we can keep the two of you and the little ones until we find them homes. As for the two of you, though, this is merely to find you a safer place to recover. You both still have a very long road."

Sinclair scoffs quietly. "Believe me, I know."

"I want to talk to you about something, however, Sinclair. Something you have been avoiding." Once again, she manages to catch him unaware. He knows what she'll ask about as she's been trying to get it out of him for quite some time but never managed to secure privacy. Now, though, with Delta asleep and everyone else separated into different rooms all over the rented space, they have all the solitude they could ask for at current. "What happened in your dream?" Yes. That.

"You know, when people avoid talking about something, it's because they don't want to."

"And why do you not want to speak of it, Sinclair?"

"Well, if you really must know, I saw a lot of personal things that should be none of your business - no offense."

Her voice lowers, turning into a very rare and gentle version of itself free of most of her usual grit. To most people, it would almost be soothing but Sinclair knows Tenenbaum and all her methods. Sometimes, she could be an even better manipulator than Lamb. "It helps to talk about it."

"Helps to- What?"

"Trauma. You have been through a lot - we both have - and I believe it would help very much to discuss how we feel. I know from experience that bottling things for too long can become disastrous, but with you the effects would extend beyond just you. Think of it as part of Delta's treatment. This was all for him, after all."

"I'm fine." It seems to be reflex when Brigid leans forward and slaps the side of his head sternly, much like a mother would to an indignant child - all the embarrassment of being on the receiving end included. Before he can retort with all the offense of a grown man being popped like a ten-year-old, she silences him with a hiss.

"Do not lie to me, Sinclair. You were unwell even before the operation and you continue to be troubled. I am not one of your clients, so easily fooled by a smile and empty assurance."

"Well, how do you expect me to feel bein' forced into this?" He slaps both hands on his chest, putting on a show. He's always putting on a show and he doesn't want to do this. Not now, possibly not ever. As if it's any of her business anyway, like he's already made clear. Even so, she continues with the same stoic expression and soft, flat tone - much to his exasperation.

"You know exactly what I mean, Augustus." Using his first name. More and more games. He feels his anger start to bubble over. "You need to talk to talk to someone."

"I don't need to. It's my own problem and I don't need to go spillin' to random people about the nasty shit that keeps me up at night. I'll manage."

"You will drag Delta down with you in your emotional breakdown. Sinclair, you did this for him and yet when you are faced with confronting your problems for his sake, you refuse. Which is it that you want: to help Delta or try to punish yourself because you seem to think that will make all of your guilt go away."

If he could see his own expression, he knows it would be curled into an almost animalistic snarl...

"I did this because Delta saved my life and I thought he deserved to live. More than me at lea-" He stops himself, but knows it's too late. That bullet is through his foot and into the linoleum. The cringe he makes is more or less to stop himself from seeing Tenenbaum's expression, most surely expectant with the slightest glint of smugness in her steely glare.

"Tell me about the dream, Augustus."

"Bite me."

"If that will make you talk to me, then I will do it. Be careful." That isn't a joke. Or… If it is, it's said so coldly that one can't tell the difference. "Why do you resist so much? I will not hurt you for what you tell me, Sinclair. I know what you have done, what things weigh on your shoulders."

"No you don't… You know a lot, but not everything…"

"Then tell me. I experimented on children. You cannot be worse than me."

"That's not… It's a lot of things and not all of them are severe like that. I told you that it's personal and I'd rather not talk about it. Please, just… Just leave me be… For god's sake, just leave me be."

She's quiet for a moment… pondering… maybe chewing the inside of her cheek a little. Before she speaks next, she sighs a relenting sort of sound - annoyed but accepting for the time being. "He saw it all, you know. He continues to. There are no secrets with him, Augustus. There will not be for a long time. The things that weigh on you? They might trouble him as well; trouble him because he does not understand." He spares her a tired glance. "What you have chosen to do is walk a tightrope with him. That walk was easy for Eleanor for he could simply carry her on his shoulders. He cannot do that with you. You are _so heavy_ because walking with you means walking with a ton of bricks that he will happily take the brunt of. If he does that, you will both fall… And it will not be graceful." Tenenbaum turns to the door. "If you cannot be honest with me, be honest with him. Help him understand." She's gone in an irritable shuffle, leaving the older man alone with his thoughts once more - thoughts he ponders as he turns back to that same wall, glaring at the chips in the paint with an entirely new train racing tirelessly along those tracks in his head.

...

_"...Was a good kid..." _

_"Was." That word always gets him when he thinks back to that night. In truth, the incident at Cohen's show had, in fact, been innocent - or at least the most innocent meeting they had had in a long time. It didn't end quite that way... The recording came in the next morning, every bit as stinging as that one little word. "Was." What did Sullivan mean when he said that? Yes, it is implied that they got rid of Wayne in one way or another, but... Could they get away with just... murder? Is that even something Ryan's enforcers would do? To Sinclair's knowledge, Wayne wasn't a prisoner at Persephone... Unless. He shakes the thought from his head with a heavy knot forming in his throat... even it was a possibility. He ponders it all while the recording plays softly on his desk... Wayne's voice speaks in a way to foreign, so formal... A fashion which he never needed to use around Augustus because the older man enjoyed his usual __idiosyncrasies - drastically more southern than Sinclair could ever dream of being in the absolute best way possible._

_On the fourth playing, his lips start to quiver._

_He remembers hearing Wayne sing for the first time. It was the second night they'd spent together and instead of sleeping afterwords, Wayne claimed all the energy in the world. He threw on his trousers and white t-shirt while inviting Augustus to do the same. When they were both mostly presentable, the larger man took him by the hand, wrapping the other around Augustus's waist in an action that would have earned him a string of scolds had Wayne not begun what might have been one of the most winsome renditions of "Be My Love." To **that**, the older man pulls a hand free to cover his face which is split by the biggest ear-to-ear smile he thinks has ever graced his lips. Wayne smiles, too. Smiles with his gentle, completely enraptured eyes. It's ridiculous, cornier than Iowa and yet his heart aches with each careful step they take between one another. Soon, the hand slips back into the larger man's, face softened and trying to appear tired but entertained. It's a facade. He thinks it's a good one, but they both know. Wayne always knew... The first person to ever see right through him._

_On the fifth, his eyes start to moisten._

_He remembers the first time they kissed... **really **kissed. Kisses in bed were par fo the course, but... this was different. He told himself otherwise, but it was. It had been some time after Wayne started staying the entire night on his days off. They both awoke the next morning and Sinclair jokingly offered him eggs. Of course, he did end up making them, but the dig at domesticity was appreciated between the two of them thanks to their constant insistence that they'd despise married life. Oh, how they loathed those "housewife" novels - waking up to a hot breakfast and smiles like everything was right with the world. One joke lead to another and as Sinclair slipped Wayne a plate, the larger man teasingly took him by the chin and planted a peck on his lips... then another... then it wasn't a joke anymore. He'd thought the butterflies in his gut had been dead for years, but if any kiss could bring life to the dead, it was Wayne's. _

_On the sixth, he's covering his mouth to stop the strangled breaths he's letting out from becoming anything more._

_The "I love you." Sinclair always believed Wayne saying it was just him having fun. He'd say it, Sinclair would tell him to shut up and Wayne would laugh. He never said it back... Never... He couldn't. He always told himself that he couldn't lie to the man he shared his bed with more than any other human being he'd ever met, but... He realizes it so late... too late... **That **was the lie. He got goosebumps when Wayne sung, felt his heart skip a beat when he smiled, fought off the urge to melt into every kiss... refused to return every "I love you" even if the response came like an unbeatable impulse. Wayne is right... **was **right... He'd been living honestly. Augustus hadn't. That's when that word really hits him..._

_...There, on the seventh listening of that damned recording..._

"Was."

On the seventh, his head is pressed into his folded arms upon the desk while his shoulders shiver.


End file.
